The Decision Makers
by bandj4ever
Summary: Sometimes it seems all we have left are the choices we make. A journey in an imperfect world where making the right decision can be a matter of perspective. An epic. WARNINGS apply. Strong language and some images may disturb sensitive readers. TV Verse.
1. Chapter 1

_Authors' Note: All characters, events, companies and most places mentioned here are fictitious – we even have our doubts about that place we've called Australia. Many thanks to RL Bird for permission to mention an incident from 'A Touch of Malice'. This would still be at the bottom of the drawer if not for the unparalleled patience and generosity of Quiller. A special thank you to Samantha Winchester who guided the story in the initial stages. The story is mainly Brumby's work, though I had a little more input into it than I intended. Enjoy! Jackie._

_Disclaimer: Even the characters have disowned us. They've fled back to their rightful owners, Granada Ventures, for safekeeping (which is definitely NOT us). We may gain an insane pleasure from doing this but certainly not money._

**The Decision Makers**

"_They that have power to hurt and will do none,_

_That do not do the thing they most show,_

_Who, moving others, are themselves as stone."_

_- Shakespeare_

**Prologue – Kysan, Korea**

Scott Tracy, eldest of the five Tracy brothers and team leader of International Rescue, stood braced at their communications unit, with his feet spread and a steadying hand on the console.

"Mobile Control to Thunderbird Five. John? What's the latest?"

Scott stared at the superstructure of his silver rocket-plane that overshadowed him with an almost benevolent protectiveness. Normally he would gaze up at his machine with a reverent awe but today, he studied its red nose cone, sleek body and slender landing struts as a way to gauge the movement in the ground beneath him. With the vibration of the heavy equipment clearing the debris from fallen buildings around him, it was impossible to tell where the movement was coming from – machine or earth. And he needed to know.

"Seismic activity increasing, Scott. Brains is predicting another sizeable aftershock. And soon."

Scott cursed under his breath, and, to keep his look of dismay from showing, turned his back on a group of city officials who were politely waiting for him to work some kind of miracle. He listened for the machinery working not far from him. Along with other emergency crews, Gordon had been using the Firefly as a powerful front-end loader to clear rubble from one multi-storey complex that had fallen in on itself. Virgil worked in Domo One to hold the last vertical section, which had been left standing precariously. John had picked up faint life-signs and they worked frantically to get to the survivors before the next shift in the ground.

"Mobile Control to Domo One. Virgil?"

"H-holding…" Scott could hear the strain both in Virgil and in the reactor of the Domo.

But he couldn't hear the excavator. "Mobile Control to Firefly. Report."

Gordon didn't respond.

"Gordon. Report."

There was a delay that tested Scott's patience then Gordon's voice came back at him.

"Okay over here, Scott. I think I'm getting somewhere. I think I may have found them." His voice was muffled and he grunted like he strained at something.

"What's your location?"

"Hold on a minute, I've found…"

Scott heard the _chink_ of shifting masonry then the _tap_ of metal on metal. Scott's heart rate jolted when he realised where Gordon could be. This time, Scott felt the deep rumble at the same time he heard it. His gaze, which had never left his Thunderbird, focused in on the unnatural sway of his machine.

"Gordon! Get back! Clear the site! That's an order!"

"I'm there, Scott. Give me a second." He heard Gordon talk in a reassuring manner to someone.

"No! Get out from wherever you are! Now!"

Scott felt the concrete ripple beneath him. Without referring to those looking on, he slap-locked the console and switched to his wrist communicator as he leapt for his hover bike.

"Virgil?"

"Can't…hold it…much…"

Scott could see the elevated arm of Domo One strain against the remains of a building as the section poised to topple. He knew Gordon had to be under there somewhere.

"Gordon! _Get out_!"

Scott gunned his machine across the devastated site to the Firefly. He saw the pile of hydraulic jacks and the distinctive blue of his brother's boots edging out from under a thick slab. The sight cut Scott's breathing.

He jumped from the bike and launched for his brother's legs, feeling as he did that heave, rise and gather of the pressure in the earth beneath him. He grabbed Gordon's boots and hauled backwards.

Gordon fought him. He kicked, yelled, writhed and clawed but Scott was more determined. The onlookers may have expected some show of heroics from the members of International Rescue. More often than not they were too willing to oblige but Scott was in no mood for sacrifices, not today, not after the week he'd had.

Gordon came back above ground with a rush and they toppled backward together as the surface beneath them convulsed. They'd no sooner come to rest when Scott glimpsed the entire site shift then settle with a deafening roar as forces greater than themselves raged about them and they were hit with the resulting draught. Gordon cowered on his knees, staring fixedly at the blood in his clenched fingers. Scott instinctively covered his brother as they were torched, blown and sand-blasted with dust and debris, the last exhale of a lost cause.

Silence gathered. Machinery stopped and voices stilled.

"It's gone…" Virgil despaired over the com-watch. "The whole frigging lot has _gone_…"

* * *

**Chapter One – Sydney, Australia**

Scott slammed his glass down on the table in front of him. He barely noticed that half its contents splashed over his hand, onto the sleeve of his shirt and over the table set for three. Scott did notice the waiter hesitate in his track through the tables as he served other patrons but Scott made no attempt to lower the volume or intensity of his voice.

"I made a decision, Gordon, and I'll live with it. Okay."

Virgil and Gordon glanced guiltily about them, also noticing his aggressive tone was drawing attention.

"I still say I could have got them out," Gordon whispered as he leaned into the centre of the table, looming large in Scott's line of sight when the prudent would have backed off.

"You don't know that," Virgil said. "We need to debrief. Discuss this with Brains."

Scott went to raise his glass to his mouth again but found his forearm pinned to the table by Virgil's hand.

"Eat something," Virgil told him.

When Scott looked at the plate of steak and pasta in front of him, he felt nauseous. He was famished but it reminded him of what he'd done that day, what he'd been doing that entire disastrous week. He attempted to take another drink but Virgil was equally determined.

"Eat something, I said."

Scott closed his eyes. He shoved Virgil's hand aside and emptied the glass.

Scott would have felt better if they'd been able to go home and thrash this out in the rescue debrief as they normally would. But as luck or fate would have it, a tropical cyclone had blown in over their South Pacific island base while they had been away and they had to wait it out on the Australian mainland.

Virgil, forever the peacemaker, had suggested a night out to unwind and relieve the tension between him and Gordon. It took some doing but Virgil had convinced him. Their father had thought it was a good time for them to visit the newly-opened Tracy Corporation offices in Sydney. What was the harm in coming into the city a little earlier than scheduled?

"I almost had that jack under, Scott. Almost," Gordon said. He moved to get in Scott's line of sight and Scott sighed, knowing his brother would not be put off.

"And it could've collapsed on top of you and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Gordon," Virgil said. "Leave it, would you. You had no idea when the next tremor was coming." Virgil pushed his empty plate to one side. "Scott made a decision and it was the right one."

Scott ignored the growing pound of a tension headache and stared past the copper-haired head of his second youngest brother out into the darkness of the harbour. It was a warm, steamy evening. The quay was crowded with Sydneysiders as they dined and mingled. A flash of lightning highlighted the prominent bridge, which Gordon had called a coat hangar due to its unusual shape.

The lights, the boats, the sights and sounds of a harbour city were lost on Scott. He'd been immersed in too much mortality lately to give into the gaiety that easily. It was during times like this, exhausted, defeated, that the questions came. What if…? How could…?

Scott's focus shifted from the din around him to the rain as it ran down the awning that protected the windowless shopfront from the weather. For a moment he watched the water come together like the joining of hands, his gaze following the movement as the torrent cascaded to the pavement below.

"Not for those five we left in body bags, it wasn't." Gordon stared at his hand as if he was still seeing the tiny fingers entwined with his. "I had that boy by the hand. I promised him, Scott. I promised. Just a few more seconds."

Virgil sighed sympathetically. "Yeah, we feel bad about it, too."

"_I_ left them in body bags. If you recall," Scott said before he could dampen the flash of anger that rocketed through him.

He could still see the shocked expression on his brothers' faces when he ordered them off the site once they had the rubble cleared from the dead. He'd taken it on himself to follow through on the decision he'd made and it was as a bitter medicine as he knew. He felt not a little guilty that his brother was going home with him when five families would be left to mourn their loss and he'd had the power to make that choice. It hurt like hell.

And tomorrow, no scrub that, _today_ he would need to smile reassuringly at a whole bunch of new employees.

"This isn't working," Virgil said.

Scott reached over and downed Virgil's full measure of scotch then pushed back his chair with his legs to stand up.

"Let's find a way to lose ourselves. Come on, Gordo, what do you say?"

Gordon crossed his arms and leaned on the table drawing his finger along the rim of his own empty glass. "I wish we could go home."

Scott was stuck by the simplicity of the statement and the sentiment behind it but before he thought of a suitable comeback a light on his com-watch flashed. This time, the three of them swore loud enough to get the attention of the waiter.

After paying for their meal, Scott led his brothers out onto the busy footpath and herded them into shelter from the rain. He stood with one elbow on each of their shoulders so they could listen in and so it didn't look strange to be talking into his watch.

"Scott to John. What have you got?" Scott said, automatically slipping on his professional demeanour.

John's face appeared in the watch dial. "Sorry, I know you were promised a break. Time to do the neighbourly thing. Authorities on Caroaka are asking for help. That's an island three hundred miles north-east of base. The cyclone has cleared from there and a mudslide has taken out a highland village. Roads have been washed away with the torrential rain. Rescue workers can't get up there for at least twenty-four hours."

_Mudslide_. Scott felt the muscles in his abdomen clench. Not mud. He saw Virgil and Gordon exchange disgusted glances. Working in mud gave new meaning to the saying 'getting down and dirty' and it was worse when you were already feeling like crap on the inside. Mud was mind-numbingly unwieldy to work, its fluid nature giving it no structure for machines to work effectively. It usually came down to heaving a shovel.

He wasn't surprised by the emergency. Unanchored earth on steep terrain plus rain meant mudslide. What bothered him was that highland villages were most often constructed of lightweight materials. He grimly did a count of the body bags they had left on board. There would be little rescue, only recovery. But then – if they saved one life it would be worth the discomfort to them.

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose as he listened. "Give us thirty minutes." He grinned when both his brothers protested. "All right, make it forty. Just to humour the sceptics."

John knew exactly where they were – a long way from their machines. Thunderbird One and Thunderbird Two were camouflaged by nets in the house paddock of Lady Penelope's Bonga Bonga homestead hundreds of kilometres to their west. They needed to drive their hire car back to the airport and fire up Tracy jet Three for a subsonic dash across the Australian outback before they could even think about the rescue effort. In order to do that even under one hour and fifteen minutes as Scott estimated, he would need all the help John could give him.

The men jogged back to the distinctive sedan they'd left parked up a few blocks from Circular Quay. As they were unfamiliar with the territory, Scott left the communication line open.

"Call up all the telemetry. You're my eyes and ears, bro."

John's blond-haired visage didn't change as it floated eerily along on his wrist. "It'll cost you."

"Doesn't it always." He bet John was referring to the fact that their father didn't know they'd left Bonga Bonga. "Speaking of threats. How's communication with base? Any chance Alan can get over?"

"Not a hope. You're it, Scott. The eye'll pass sometime in the next hour then they'll have to wait for the wind to abate. They're bunkered down in the lab but they're not expecting catastrophic damage. At the moment communication's patchy. If it is taken out it shouldn't take Alan too long to restore it."

By the time all three made it to the car they were tearing at their jackets from the heat. Scott automatically headed for the left side of the vehicle prepared to do battle with Gordon who had taken up his position by the front door. Then he corrected when he remembered where he was. Australians drive on the wrong side of the road. By that time Virgil had beaten him to the driver's door. His brother leaned against the door panel with his arms folded.

"I'll drive."

"No chance."

"Father stood you down. You had a shit week and you're not supposed to be on this. I'll do it."

"Out of the way. You heard John. Al can't cover for me and it's my job, my responsibility."

"You didn't eat and you had – a couple of drinks."

Scott glanced across the roof of the car to Gordon who picked at the paintwork absentmindedly.

"Gordon? You sure you're okay?" Since Gordon's recent horrific ordeal at the hands of kidnappers, Scott got worried when Gordon went quiet. He saw he needed to have a good talk with him but patch-up work was for home and they were a long way from there.

"Sure thing," Gordon replied while still staring at the roof of the car.

"Look. The one thing I'm glad about. I didn't load you into one of those bags. Okay?"

Gordon nodded.

"The damn keys," Virgil said.

Scott leaned heavily against Virgil's shoulder. "Let's see if I got this straight. One before we left Bonga. One while you waited for your order. One with your meal. Do I need to go on?" Scott pointed to the interior of the vehicle. "It's got a drunk meter, for heaven's sake." He used Gordon's term to describe the ignition interlock fitted to the Monaro but it still didn't get the response he wanted from the redhead. "If I fail, I'll hand them over. Agreed? Come on. No time to argue."

Virgil mulled it for a second then unhappily stepped to take the back seat. Scott got in, cracked his knuckles and pressed his finger in the sensor as the first part to starting the car. The rental company had installed driver impairment technology to measure reaction time and co-ordination to make sure the driver was fit enough to pilot. Scott followed the rapid sequence of six activities with ease and the car started.

Scott referred back to his wrist-com. In Tracy vehicles they could bring up the information on a visual satellite navigation screen, here John would have to guide him blind. John would be looking at street layout, traffic position, traffic light sequences, pedestrian location and that all-important notification of speed detection units, both automatic and manual. To help those people on Caroaka he would really need to fly and that meant on the ground as well as in the air.

Scott ran the wipers and did a sweeping check of the instruments in the habit of a pilot. "Everyone strapped in?" When he got murmurs from around him, he said. "Okay, John. It's dark and raining so help me good, okay?"

The airport was eight kilometres south from the centre of Sydney. Scott pushed the car first through streets of inner city office buildings then inner city industrial areas then into re-developed urban precincts. He had no trouble handling the hazardous conditions with John feeding him information and his brothers riding shotgun. He had no trouble, that is, until they could virtually see the lights of the airfield.

He took a left turn from the arterial onto a feeder road that would take them to their destination. It was a fast turn and he felt the rear of the Monaro slide a fraction. Oil, he bet. He accelerated smoothly to stop any side drift and was really beginning to open it up on John's go-ahead when there was a simultaneous shout. His senses picked up both John's shout of warning and Gordon's plea of "Look out!"

Scott saw a flash of fast-moving colour in his headlights. It was a pedestrian, cutting a path straight across him. He made a stab at going around the person like he would on a slalom course but they kept pace with his accelerating swerve to the right. There was a sickening thump then a cry from the other occupants of the car as an outstretched hand came at them like an arrow. The fingers, fully extended, contacted the windscreen and stuck there for a horrific millisecond. The rest of the body followed, slapping into the windscreen to crack it before sliding silently off the side, swept off the bonnet by the sideways movement of the car.

Shocked by the impact, Scott overcorrected. His instinct told him he was way too far to the right not to make contact with something solid. Before he could override this natural tendency, his foot was on the brake, sending the vehicle into a slurring slide. He tried to reverse lock and accelerate out of it but in the wet the tyres refused to grip. There was little he could do. He watched helplessly as the Monaro slid sideways. Then slammed into a power pole.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Gordon blinked rapidly in those first seconds after impact. He had watched the front section of the Monaro flex to the left at a different rate to the rest of the vehicle then the windscreen disintegrate into a fractured mosaic that flapped rhythmically in the momentum of the crash. The sounds of twisting metal and breaking glass and that noise of a fast moving object meeting an unmovable one were all around him. The power pole they'd hit remained upright but the impact telegraphed the shock into the overhead wires creating a tortured, ominous creak. He feared the worst but it didn't happen. The live wires remained in place. Shaken but in place.

After that, there was a period of confusion until natural law was satisfied. During this time all he could see was the imprint of the hand that had impacted the windscreen. He held up his own hand in order to gain a comparison. It had been small. And female.

_Oh shit_.

He glanced about him. He'd fared okay. His front and side air bags had inflated and all he could recall was the heave of the seat belt on his shoulder. He would feel that another day. He looked across to Scott. Not so lucky. The sight of him automatically overrode his natural horror and his EMT training kicked in.

The vehicle had struck the pole at the front pillar. The air bag on the driver's door had worked but the one on the steering wheel had inflated then failed. The cabin had crushed in and Scott was unnaturally close to the impact. He appeared wrapped around the steering wheel, both his arms raised in a defensive gesture around the collapsed wheel, his chest on it and his face resting against what was left of the windscreen. He was showered in glass from the side window and the metal of the door pillar was folded down around him.

When he heard movement in the rear, Gordon twisted in his seat. Gordon startled when he saw a short post from footpath eatery barriers had pierced the cabin and stopped just short of Virgil's abdomen. Virgil pulled at his shirt to inspect the damage.

"Missed me," Virgil said. Then he winced. "I think. Winded maybe. Wow."

"Okay?"

Virgil shook his head as if to clear it. "Give me a sec."

Gordon unbuckled his seat belt and touched Scott's shoulder to reach for his pulse. He was surprised to see Scott was conscious. His brother stared blankly through the front then his eyes slid towards the sound of Gordon's voice.

"Dear God," Scott whispered. "Please tell me I didn't… Please tell me…"

"Take it easy." Gordon reached in around him and turned off the ignition. A fire was the last thing they needed. "It's okay."

As soon as Gordon opened his com-link on his watch, John nearly jumped down the line at him. "What in the blazes happened?"

"We hit a pedestrian," Gordon said tonelessly. He was shocked enough not to be able to think of any easy way to say it.

John's mouth gapped momentarily. "What was that almighty noise?"

"We hit a pole. Can't go into details. We're all up but we need help. Urgently. A unit with extraction gear and a mobile intensive care. Whatever they have here."

John breathed heavily into the mike. "Immediately."

Gordon cut the link to turn his attention back to Scott. Scott's left arm was pinned behind what remained of the steering wheel. Once Gordon had unclipped Scott's smashed com-watch his arm was free and Scott showed no great distress at it being moved. Gordon brushed away glass then felt around for Scott's right arm. The light was dim but it appeared to disappear into a tangle of metal and fragments of the dashboard.

_Not so good_.

"You hurt anyplace?"

Scott shook his head but Gordon knew better than to trust his brother's self-report. Scott hated medical attention and would be the last to admit he needed it. In the fraction of a second of silence that followed as Gordon checked his brother over, he heard a steady drip. Gordon ducked down to look under the dash. He could see a steady line of blood run along the steering column and into the floor well.

_Even worse_.

"Get me out of here, Gordo. Please."

"Hang on, I'm just looking. It's all right."

"Virg? Virgil?" Scott tried to turn his head towards the rear seat but Gordon stopped him.

"Right here, don't worry," Virgil said softly.

Gordon took another precious moment to feel around for Scott's other arm. No luck. He would need mechanical help to get him out.

"Get me out of here," Scott said. "I hit someone. I have to help."

"Not right now," Gordon said. "You're caught well and good, we can't move you."

The more Gordon worked, the more his mind got into gear and his movements became quicker. All the while the image of that hand haunted him. He knew where his priority was but he couldn't leave his brother just yet. Virgil unbuckled his seat belt and eased forward between the seats, bringing his jeans jacket to pack around Scott's trembling shoulders. Gordon indicated between Scott's knees.

"He's bleeding down there. A lot. From his arm, I think. Pressure on his brachial might help. Otherwise—"

"I'm on it. Otherwise, very last resort. Tourniquet. I won't let him bleed out while I watch." Virgil glanced behind him. "Get out and see if there's anything you can do."

Gordon stared at his side door, saw the tortured state of the side frame and reached for the fire extinguisher attached to the middle of the door pillar. He used it to smash the window sufficiently for him to push safely through and handed the extinguisher back to Virgil.

"Take care of under the hood," Virgil said as if reading his mind. "We're under control here. Go, Gordon."

Gordon pushed off from the Monaro more weak-kneed than he expected.

It was an urban street, with high density housing squeezed between low rise office blocks, old commercial properties and boutique dining. It was still raining and the street lights made white halos in places along the street. Other vehicles had stopped and a handful of people spilled from a doorway. Outside lights were turning on as curious residents investigated the noise.

Gordon ran to the heap in the middle of the road and got there as two others bent over her. By the hand he'd seen, he knew he'd see a teenage girl. At that moment, it struck him that it was often the hand he found first and he could see the one that had hit the windscreen was at a strange angle to the rest of her arm. He was reminded of the hand he'd let go earlier in the day and relived that moment of abandonment. It made him hesitate. What if he failed this one? But adrenaline and training pushed him past the doubt. Like his shoulder, he would feel it another day.

He'd rarely seen a human look so limply pliable. That meant multiple fractures.

"We need to move her off the road to a safer place," the first helper said.

"No! Don't move her. Organise someone to stop the traffic and bring some blankets. As quick as you can."

Perhaps warned by Gordon's stern expression, the helpers obeyed without question. He fell onto his knees, his mind already throwing in the list of possible injuries an accident such as this would cause: major extremity and pelvic damage, serious back injuries, multiple fractures, fractured skull, just to name a few – if the victim was still alive.

He found a pulse. A thready one but a pulse. There was no voluntary movement in her chest wall. He yanked off his jacket, rolled it into a log and slipped it gently around her neck. He very carefully eased back her head, checked her airway was clear then commenced CPR with a quick breath in her mouth. As he anxiously watched for a rise in her chest, an older woman carrying what looked like a tackle box ran to help, kneeling on the opposite side of the victim to him.

"I'm a doctor," she said to him.

The woman took over the emergency breathing with an ambu bag and Gordon relayed the injuries he'd already observed. She checked the patient then nodded approvingly at him. In the distance, sirens blared and Gordon took a moment to glance up at the onlookers crowding in around them.

"Keep back," he ordered. "Keep well back unless you can help."

As they worked, the woman said, "You do that well."

He agreed automatically.

The emergency crews arrived in a riot of colour and noise and by the time the paramedics had taken over, Gordon was relieved the girl was breathing on her own. It was the best start he could hope for. The absolute best under the circumstances.

* * *

John stared at the screen long after Gordon had bluntly given the news and signed off. He tried to think back, to remember what had just happened. He looked at the telemetry screen for some place to start. He could, in a fake computer-generated way, see the street. The building and roadways were lines and shapes, the cars and people on it were varying shades depending on their ability to generate heat. The weird distortion and sheer physical distance made it difficult to comprehend what he was looking at but with a little imagination it was possible. Now, too much was a disadvantage. He could see the huddle near the centre of the road and also off to the side where the vehicle had come to rest.

John tried to recall how in the hell it had happened. There had been no pedestrian any near the road when Scott came around the corner. He was sure. He'd turned away for a moment to key in Tracy Three's flight co-ordinates. It was routine. Multi-tasking was his forte. In the space station, he had streams of information coming at him from all angles and no more so than on a rescue. He could handle it. He was damned sure he'd checked the road was clear, so how could this happen?

John knew he would have to contact home sooner rather than later. _Yes, Father. A little trouble, here. Scott's just hit and possibly killed a pedestrian_. Gordon was moving around but called for extraction gear so Scott and/or Virgil was injured. The fact that Scott had not called in and had not gone to the aid of the victim spoke volumes.

Okay. Try again. _A little trouble, here, Father. Scott's just hit and possibly killed a pedestrian. Scott lost control of the car and smashed into a pole. Virgil and Scott are injured_. No, Scott was taking too much blame. He needed to rephrase it. He would make sure his father was sitting down.

John steeled himself as he opened the link to base. "Thunderbird Five to International Rescue. Come in, base."

"Base…Thunderbird Five." His father's steely grey image cleared then dropped out in blocks while his voice came in choppy phrases that were interspersed with shrieks. Alan, Brains and his father would be in Brain's lab deep beneath their island home to wait out the storm. Tin-Tin and Grandma were sheltering in New Zealand with Kyrano, their father's personal assistant. Good, he didn't have to break the news to the women.

"We have a situation here, Father." John wiped his sweaty palms on the pants of his uniform.

"Have they launched?"

"Ah – Dad, are you sitting down?"

That statement actually made Jeff stand up. "What's happened?"

"There's been an accident." John heard his father take a breath even over the whine of the wind in the background. He saw the faces of Alan and Brains move into view behind his father's shoulder.

"Okay. Give it to me."

John did give it to him, almost as bluntly as Gordon had been. There was no other way to say it. Jeff did sit down then, still staring at the screen as he received the news.

Blond-haired Alan bent into view. "Once the wind has died down, Brains, Tin-Tin and I can come get Thunderbird Two and go help those people in Caroaka. Six hours max."

"We'll get there," his father said, as the transmission was breaking up, not asking as many questions as John expected. "As soon as we can. Tell everyone to sit tight. Tell them to stay exactly where they are."

* * *

"Back off, Virg. Let go." Scott pushed against his brother's bulk then grunted when it didn't get him closer to the centre of the road.

"Sit down. Move around and your arm'll bleed more."

Scott glanced down at what Virgil had done for him. Virgil had made a pressure tourniquet from what he had to hand: a tie, a pen and folded handkerchiefs and applied it just above his elbow so not all the blood supply to his lower arm was compromised. His forearm was splinted with a tyre lever and parts of the wheel jack Virgil had found in the boot. Above that, it was wrapped in electrical tape and his leather jacket. All it looked like was he had his jacket draped over his arm so he wouldn't lose it.

"I can do something."

"Sit over here." Virgil pointed to the footpath. "The medics are on the job. We make it a policy not to interfere, you know that. We'd only get in the way."

"This is important. I have to."

"Sit down."

Scott still tried to get past Virgil even as a police officer motioned a paramedic over to check him. "We're okay. See what you can do over there. She needs the help."

"Don't be a fool." Virgil turned to the paramedic. "I applied a tourniquet. It's been on four minutes."

The paramedic closed in on Scott but Scott back-pedalled. "The girl first. Do everything you can for her."

"Scott! Please!" Virgil pulled on Scott's good arm to stop him from shying away from the medical help.

"The girl," Scott insisted.

The paramedic waited impatiently, didn't get the permission he needed then indicated he would return to Scott later.

"Who's the driver here?" the police officer said.

Scott stopped his struggle with Virgil to stand a little straighter. "I am, sir."

"Step back on the footpath for me, please. Out of the way. Just there." He pointed to a spot on the pavement up against a building that was out of the rain.

They complied, walking past the fire officers who were checking the broken-backed Monaro and the integrity of the pole, which was almost immersed into the bodywork of the vehicle. Scott's stomach contents lurched when he saw the damage he'd caused.

But he also knew that was the least of it.

"How's the young woman? Is there any news?" the brothers asked almost at the same time.

"Not yet. Name?"

"Tracy. Scott Tracy."

The police officer asked him general questions about what had happened and he answered as best he could until he was asked.

"Any particular reason for the hurry, driver?"

Scott didn't answer. He wasn't thinking fast enough to give a good answer. What could he say? _Yes! Lives in Caroaka depended on International Rescue's prompt response?_

The police officer waited then said impatiently. "Okay. Stay right here. Don't move from this spot. I'll be a couple of minutes and we'll go into details."

Scott sat on the footpath, his back supported by the concrete foundations of an old building, his knees drawn up around him as he cradled his right arm close to his body in his lap. Virgil stood over him with his arms folded across his chest. In a strange, detached kind of way, Scott felt euphoric just to be free of the car. He wasn't claustrophobic but he couldn't stand to be enclosed anywhere where he couldn't move freely. He was not one to like being thwarted.

His mind was a step behind still trying to formulate a good reason. He was travelling at speed _because John said it was safe to do so._

"John," Scott said. "Where's my com-watch? I need to contact John."

Virgil pulled it out of his jeans pocket to hold it up forlornly. "Got it but it's broken. Have mine." He unclipped his own and handed it to Scott, who immediately established a link to the secret space station.

"John, listen to me. Don't beat yourself up about this. Okay? I was driving. I bear full responsibility." All John did was to stare unblinkingly at him. "We knew it wasn't foolproof."

When John finally spoke, Scott could hear the tension. "I don't know where she came from. I was keying in the flight plan to Bonga. I looked away for no more than a second."

"We'll go over the recordings together, okay. Did you get through to Father?"

"He's on his way as soon as the wind eases. Maybe in a couple of hours. Alan, Brains and Tin-Tin will come get Thunderbird Two and do what they can at Caroaka."

Virgil leaned to see into the watch face. "Gordon and I can go. Just as soon as Scott's taken care of."

"Father wants you to stay."

"Why?"

"It was a bad connection, Virg. We didn't get long. He was adamant."

Scott saw Gordon separate from the crowd and run over. "Hang on. Here comes Gordo."

There was a frown across his brother's brow but none of the devastated look Scott had seen when they'd lost those people earlier that day. "You've got good news, I can tell."

"Maybe! Hey, good to see you two out of there. The guys were surprised."

"Virg's a genius with a tyre iron." Scott was no prouder of his brother than when he had stood on the bonnet, his feet spread, heaving back the shattered windscreen with little more than the short metal instrument and his brute strength.

"Well, so far so good," Gordon reported. "You know maybe we can be hopeful but now I'm worried about you, Scott. Praise from the man, himself. Take notes, Virg."

Gordon stood over him then reached to draw the covering on his arm but Scott fended him off.

"Ah-no you don't. Not for the faint-hearted and especially not for anyone under the age of twenty-five."

Frowning deeper now, Gordon appealed to Virgil, who strolled to lean on the bonnet of the car with both hands as if he was looking into it.

"A bad crush injury to his forearm and deep lacerations that'll require stitching. Fractured ulna at the very least. But the bleeding's controlled. Other than a multitude of cuts and bruises particularly to his rib cage, I'd say he's pretty damn lucky."

"Hey," Scott said. "How about I set up open contact on Virgil's comm, here, and we can all commune. Group hug kind of thing. I mean – I don't mean – I mean in spirit. That's the new corporate thing, isn't it? I haven't forgotten I'm in deep, here. Humour me. Please."

They stared across at the frantic activities and he knew enough to know when things were going okay. So far so good. The girl was alive and the people of Caroaka would still get help quicker than from their own people if Alan could take Thunderbird Two. Scott was just starting to let go of a little of the terror he felt when he saw Virgil sway.

"Virgil?"

Virgil pressed his face into his upper arm then stepped along the gutter away from the vehicle to vomit. He made a funny noise as he clutched his left side. Scott tried to get up to help but pain in his chest and arm defeated him and he started to crawl to him.

"Virgil?"

Gordon was by his brother's side in an instant. "Sit down. Quickly."

"I think I must have pulled something when I levered that door pillar," Virgil said breathlessly.

Gordon reached across to press under his ribs and Virgil made a choked cry as he doubled over. "Your colour's very bad. Lie down. There you go."

Gordon almost pushed him to street level. A police officer noticed Virgil collapse and called for a paramedic. Scott was shocked to see Virgil start to writhe on the pavement.

"_Virgil_!"

Scott got to his brother at the same time as the paramedic and police officer. He would have helped him but the police officer wouldn't let him, physically manhandling him back to the footpath.

"Virgil. Hang on. It'll be okay." He wanted to be with his brother, to have his hands on him to reassure him. He called to him over the distance until he became breathless with the effort then had to watch and listen to Virgil cry in agony as the paramedics prepped him for an emergency dash to hospital.

Gordon suggested a ruptured spleen and Scott agreed. The critically ill girl was loaded into a care unit first then Virgil. Scott was heartbroken to see his best mate being taken away.

_Virgil. I am so sorry_.

Gordon glanced back at him when they were ready to go.

"Stay with him. Don't leave him," he whispered to Gordon through the com-link. The younger brother raised his hand in acknowledgement as he climbed in before the doors shut. Scott watched sorrowfully as the vehicles disappeared into the distance.

The police officer returned to him. "You sure you're okay? We're waiting for another unit to take you, should be here any minute. Bad night with this rain."

"No problem," Scott said. He had an insane fear of hospitals after last seeing his mother in one. It was the bed she'd been in he vividly remembered. Sanitised. Unblemished. Made up for someone else. He was in no hurry to go anywhere and his arm was numb enough to tell him he didn't want to know the outcome. With his injury, he was the one who should've been screaming blue bloody murder, not his brother.

The police officer looked at him then at the car he'd wrecked. "You'd better buy a ticket in Tatts with the luck you're having."

Scott silently agreed it was not one of his better days and he was well aware of the potential for it to get even worse. Much worse. _If that girl dies…_ He was so exhausted he felt light-headed. He leaned on his good hand and spoke to John, who was trying to reach base again but was unsuccessful. Scott put the com-watch down beside him and closed his eyes for a moment.

Or at least it felt like a moment. Then he heard the rustle of fabric near him. He opened his eyes in time to see someone swipe the com-watch from the asphalt beside him, almost out of his hand, and dash for the safety of the crowd.

"Hey!"

The police and fire crews were marking the scene, taking photographs and clearing the mess. They didn't seem to notice Scott start to run. The loss of his communicator was sufficient spur to get him on his feet and staggering after the culprit, using the wall of the building as a support.

He'd left the watch on open contact, which meant whoever held it could listen in on all their transmissions and could see the faces of those who spoke. It was a gut-wrenching blow.

"John! John! Shut it down! Shut it down!" he yelled as the thief made it back to the police line tape and disappeared under it into the crowd of onlookers.

On open communication it was all or nothing. With an outsider in possession of the watch, John would be forced to shut all the communication between Five and the operatives on the ground. They were now essentially cut-off from base.

Scott heard a shout for him to stop. It came from behind him with sufficient authority to make him hesitate but he was also determined to catch the culprit. As he reached the tape, a flash of brilliant light in his eyes temporarily blinded him. As he groped wildly for the barrier, a hand yanked on the back of his shirt and a strong arm across his chest stopped him cold.

* * *

John was horrified when a strange face leered at him into the screen for the wrist-coms. His first reaction was to duck out of range of the visual field. As always when on duty in the space station, he was wearing the distinctive uniform of International Rescue: blue suit, hat, and sash with their logo emblazoned on it. Scott's distant but impassioned plea to shut it down had him scrambling to do just that. His fingers shook as he reached for the control to cut all communication. The fearful tone in Scott's voice told him the worst. Someone had stolen it from him.

_Virgil down, now the watch. Shit, the news only gets better._

He tried to establish contact with base again. Now, not only were his palms sodden so was the rest of him. Without the wrist-coms operating, Alan and Brains would be put at greater risk when they went to the danger zone.

After much trying, he established a link that lasted more than a few seconds. Perhaps the winds were finally easing. He'd been too busy placating the authorities on Caroaka for the delay to check the conditions for himself.

When he faced his father, he could hardly look at him. "There's been developments, Dad, but they're not good."

The iron face looking back at him was expressionless. "Go ahead."

John relayed what he knew and it felt inadequate.

"Right. Put Thunderbird Five on automatic and use the escape pod. Set a course for Bonga Bonga. I need you down here. Communicate with Caroaka and give our apologies. Shut everything down and get down here. Alan, Brains and I will fly to Sydney just as soon as this wind eases. As of this minute, International Rescue is non-operational."

John was stunned to hear the words but he was expecting it. He heard protests from behind his father, Alan's voice raised a few notes.

"Non-operational! But Dad, we can't not go. Since when have we not gone? Brains and I can go."

"No, son. Too dangerous if you can't communicate with each other once you leave the Thunderbirds. No, we spread ourselves too thin with Virgil and Gordon unable to help. Scott's in serious trouble. And so are we. We need everyone on board to fix this confounded mess."

"But we said we'd go," Alan persisted. "The press'll crucify us. International Rescue Refuses Rescue. I can see it. We'll be dead meat."

"It'll be a first but so be it. We take the flack." His father focused back on John and John wished he hadn't. "All right, I want to know exactly how this happened and how those boys came to be in Sydney. But first we need to cover the essentials. See if you can fix a link to Penelope and tell her what's happened. We need to use the facilities at Bonga. And, John, I want to know why you didn't tell me where those boys had gone. You understand me."

John broke the link under the guise of interference and blanched.

* * *

Scott was marched by the scruff of his neck to the police car and ordered to sit in the back seat.

"That's not necessary," he said, feeling like he was hyperventilating from his exertion. "I wasn't running away."

"Not from what I just saw. Now, how about some ID?"

"My watch. Someone stole my watch," Scott said, trying to control his breathing.

"Settle down. Take it easy. We'll get to that but it might be the least of your worries. ID, please."

Scott looked down at his jeans. "Rear right pocket."

"Get it out for me."

Scott tried to retrieve it with his left arm when his right wouldn't move but he couldn't reach it. He was dismayed to feel his injury start to run with blood after the attempt. "I'm sorry, officer, I can't."

The policeman leaned forward to whip back the jacket wrapped around his arm. He cursed at the sight of Scott's mangled arm then examined the ever-expanding pool in Scott's lap. The officer stepped back to talk grimly into his shoulder mike and he didn't like what he heard. He went to the boot before coming back with a blanket.

"I'll take you to the hospital myself. Why didn't you say something? Doesn't that hurt?"

"Yes, but not as much to see that girl on the blacktop or to see my brother taken off screaming like that."

The officer softened. "Okay. We'll get you help right away. I do need to attend to some basic formalities first. Be as quick as I can. Your ID, okay?"

Scott nodded and the officer pulled out his wallet without jostling his arm.

"Could I ask about the young woman?"

"Holding. Holding. Which is good." The officer gave a weak smile. He looked through Scott's wallet. "Scott Jefferson Tracy. Tracy Corporation, New York." He looked up. "As in Tracy bigger than Microtech Corporation?" Scott was surprised the man had heard of them. "Your company just opened an office around here. I was on crowd control." _Crowd control? Tracy Corporation didn't normally attract that much attention, did it?_ "I heard it has a bigger operating budget than the US Government."

"Well…" They needed it to operate International Rescue.

The officer pulled out a box to stick a plastic tube into the end of it. "Blow in this for me. It's to give us a preliminary blood alcohol reading. As hard as you can." The officer waited for the reading and Scott couldn't tell what his response was. "Do you have your passport on you, Mr Tracy?"

_Passport._ Scott felt another flash of anxiety. He hoped John had remembered to key him in some permission to be in this country otherwise he would now be considered an illegal.

His American citizenship was usually sufficient to get him into most countries, including the greatly expanded European Union. This island continent was one of the few western countries to insist on protecting its borders. On rescues, he was normally in and out of countries without being detected. He didn't need a passport.

What if he was asked how he got into the country? Supersonic rocket-plane that few radars could detect and even fewer people had seen?

Scott shook his head as he realised another dilemma his accident had caused.

"I'll arrange extra security at the hospital for your family," the officer reassured him. "The media'll go into meltdown over this. I wouldn't like to be in your shoes."

Scott's mood plummeted. He knew if his image appeared in the papers in the morning, International Rescue's ability to function would be seriously compromised. He was the public face of the organisation at the danger zone. He was the one who'd made the phrase 'no pictures' into an authoritative art form. Enough people had seen him to make the connection between IR and Tracy Corporation. It would only take a handful of people around the world to voice that connection. The rest, as they say, would be history.

He glanced around searching for the presence of any media personnel. Then he remembered the flash in his eyes as he'd tried to breach the tape.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Jeff turned to the diminutive scientist who was standing beside him. "Well, Brains? Can that individual wrist-com be isolated from the others?"

"Oh, yes, Mr Tracy."

"Even on open contact?"

"Well – yes. It just needs to be – uh – reconfigured."

"How long?"

Brains adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses. "That's the problem, I – uh – believe. It'll take some time – uh- with this storm. It'll need me to –uh- configure each link separately through Five's computer."

"We must have those comms back on line."

"Yes, sir. As soon as I – uh- can. But you know as soon as I do, –uh- you won't be able to trace the stolen comm, Mr Tracy. It would be – uh- imperative to retrieve that device –uh- if at all possible. The – uh- circuits in it are very sophisticated. They would interest a – uh- lot of people."

"Of course. That's right. John can get onto it as soon as he's back. Penelope can help us. You could start the shutdown?"

"Oh, yes."

"Could there be a fault with the telemetry so that girl was not picked up?"

"That's unlikely. Not if the rest – uh- is working. They all would show or none would."

"I don't like this, Brains. How long before we can get off this damn island?"

"Two hours forty is my – uh- estimate."

"Right. In the meantime, I'll engage the best lawyer I can find and get the new CEO of Tracy Corp Australia out of bed."

* * *

"Mr Tracy, lie back, please." An emergency room nurse pushed back on Scott's shoulder but he refused to move.

"The girl? Is she okay? Does anyone know her name? I'd like to know her name. Please."

"Still alive last we heard. We're not able to give you any more details. Now, lie back. We can't examine you while you're half off the table."

Scott nodded but didn't move. He felt someone feel for the artery in his left arm. "What about Virg?" When the nurse raised her eyebrows, he added, "Virgil Tracy. My brother. MVA. Possible ruptured spleen."

"He's been taken to surgery. He should be just fine."

Again Scott nodded and looked up to see a crowd of medical staff staring at him, waiting for him to submit. He felt the coldness of a swab and he pulled away. If they started an IV he knew he wouldn't be going anywhere in a hurry. Several pairs of hands grabbed at him.

"Not a good idea, Mr Tracy. We could hurt you. Lie down, please." It was the surgical registrar this time. Speaking very patiently.

"I have to speak to my father. There's something important I have to tell him. I have to get home."

"Mr Tracy. Your arm needs urgent attention or you risk losing it."

"Oh, this. It's okay. We can fix it. No problem." Scott pressed his good hand to his forehead, finding it increasingly difficult to keep all his thoughts in one place. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand. There were things he just had to do, to organise, to supervise.

"Really." There were patient but tense smiles. "And where do you live?"

"Well – on a – private island in the..." the volume of his voice trailed as he looked at their bemused expressions.

The registrar closed in on him. "As our guest, you can be assured of all the resources of the state-of-the-art Australian health system. I may run kangaroos in my top paddock, Mr Tracy, but I do know my way around the anatomy of your arm."

That comment bought guarded chuckles from the staff. Scott was aware of the stereotypical comment about Aussies and kangaroos. He'd been to Bonga Bonga often enough. He smiled with them. He understood they weren't teasing him. They were trying to diffuse a difficult situation without having to resort to physical restraint. It was something he would do. Distract. Humour. Diffuse.

It wasn't going to work.

"But you see Br—" He was going to say that Brains had perfected the new micro-surgery unit and they'd been keen to try out for real then thought better of it. He did know his arm needed the best or he'd have to live without it.

The police officer stepped forward. "You have a choice. Either you check in here or I take you down the lock-up. They're the only options you have. You will be charged with offences that carry jail terms. You're not going home. Better get used to the idea."

They stared at him, waiting for his decision. The two security guards, he realised, were there to not only stop people getting to him but also to stop him from absconding. They waited.

Scott stared at each of them in turn. They didn't understand what would happen if he did lie down. He had responsibilities. He was the mainstay of the family. It had been that way since his mother died. At an early age, his duty had been impressed on him. His father was counting on him to protect his brothers, to protect their family and no more since they'd established International Rescue. He was the field commander. The decision maker. Damage control was his brief.

He needed to do what he could for this child he'd hit, maimed. He needed to find that com-watch. He needed to be there when Virgil woke up. He needed to assure Gordon and John everything was okay. He needed to discuss strategy with Father.

He needed to fix this _fucken_ mess.

"I have to speak to John," he said to no-one in particular, almost thinking out loud.

"Who's John?" the nurse asked him.

The officer scratched his temple. "He's, um, been talking to someone he called John all evening, only no-one by that name was there."

Scott saw the registrar nod to someone outside his line of vision and indicate down with his forefinger.

"Tell Gordon someone took my picture! Please!" Scott shouted, understanding they were going to sedate him, and he hoped Gordon might be somewhere near to hear him. He was restrained and the needle jabbed into his upper arm before he could stop them.

"Decision made, Mr Tracy. Lie down."

Scott hit the sheets hard.

The fall was not so much the result of the injection but the ignominy of it. The contents didn't knock him out completely. They just immobilised him. He was a superbly fit and strong man. His grandma had seen him without his shirt and commented he was one of the best examples of Midwest prime she'd seen but he was not some wild animal to be brought to ground by chemical ropes.

As he faced into what he could see was an unstoppable nightmare for him, for his family and for International Rescue, he was mortified to see water well up into his vision. He was aware in a detached kind of way that someone had noticed and attempted to reassure him by stroking his forehead.

It was too late. When he went down, he felt something give within him.

* * *

Gordon was in another part of Emergency when he heard Scott's shout. He'd accompanied Virgil as far as he was allowed and was relieved Virgil was still with it when he'd been taken upstairs for emergency surgery. Once the paramedics had given Virgil a sedative stick to suck on, he was far more comfortable. A torn spleen had been quickly determined by a scan. With modern technology, a spleen could now be repaired and saved using keyhole surgery rather than removed during a major operation.

Potentially, that meant a rapid recovery.

While Gordon was there, he'd also witnessed the transfer of the girl to somewhere where they would stabilise her horrific leg injuries. He silently wished her well. He immediately thought of the long months ahead of rehabilitation if she was fortunate to get that far. After a hydrofoil accident, he'd been left with a multitude of injuries. It had taken months of surgery and intensive therapy to regain his independence. He understood what it would take to learn to walk again.

He felt very sore, dirty and depleted. His shirt carried the outward signs of how he felt. He had inadvertently wiped Scott's blood across his shirt then Virgil had thrown up on him. He couldn't understand why his com-watch didn't work and he wondered if John had been able to reach base with the storm.

When he had casually mentioned he'd also been in the vehicle when it crashed, Gordon was shown to another cubicle where they insisted on checking him, too. They'd scanned him to check for any damage and now he waited for the results as he waded through the paperwork he was asked to fill out.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end when he heard Scott cry out. It had brought him to his feet, a tingling sensation transmitting all the way to his feet.

"Is Scott okay? That's my brother."

"A little confused and frightened. He'll be okay," a circulating nurse said.

Scott confused? Scott frightened? Scott was the calmest, coolest individual under pressure he knew.

"Maybe I can help." He'd seen hefty security guards go into his brother's cubicle that was curtained off from view.

"He's being taken care of."

"Oh, Scott won't like that."

The nurse smiled and asked if there was anything they could do for him but he declined. "Then, if you'll sign this paperwork you can go. Is there someone to pick you up?" All Gordon could do was stare blankly at his silent com-watch. "The doctor thought you're a bit dazed. Mild shock. It should pass. If it doesn't, come back here."

When he was cleared, he wandered back out into the noise of the Emergency waiting room, not sure where to go next. He made the mistake of going outside to clear his head and walked smack bang into a media pack.

* * *

Alan couldn't believe that the slender shoot of a woman who met them at the airport and bustled them into a dark sedan was the new CEO of Tracy Corporation Australia. Ms Gleeson. He thought he'd better take more notice of the business side of things in future.

It was five-thirty in the morning, Eastern Summer Time, and yet she met them in a red, fitted business suit, her silken hair curled immaculately under her chin as if she'd had all day to prepare for their arrival. They were only dressed casually in jeans and t-shirts, not having bothered to change in their rush to leave as soon as the wind abated. Still, his father carried himself with an arrogant dignity that left no doubt who was the senior partner, and he didn't mean only in years.

Alan remembered the greeting. The dark eyes had landed on him briefly and she clutched the tips of his fingers in a tight but fleeting handshake, then his hand was dropped so she could clutch the clipboard and mobile phone with equal determination.

The woman did most of the talking on the way to the hospital in her quiet way, so quiet he almost had to lean towards her to hear her. If you believed the look on her face, she had everything under control. His father stared out the windscreen, agreeing in grunts to her strategies to contain the media fallout and other ideas of damage control. An office and fully self-contained living quarters within the security of the Tracy complex were immediately available for his exclusive use. Everything was in readiness.

Alan was sure his father barely heard a word she'd said. Dad would be thinking of the girl and his brothers. His own mind churned at the thought of any of them being injured. And beyond that – what would this mean for International Rescue?

Ms Gleeson only faced opposition to her plans when she wanted to stop at Corporation offices so she could brief him fully on the situation to hand but Jeff had no interest. He insisted he be taken straight to the hospital. And she only had his full attention when she mentioned the scuffle at the opening of Tracy offices.

"What scuffle?" Jeff said.

"A very minor incident, Mr Tracy. Very minor. I have it in my report, if you'd stop a minute to—"

"Lay it out plain. I don't have time for detours."

"A protest group tried to storm the doors during the opening ceremony. The police quickly gained the upper hand. A peaceful end to a very brief struggle, I can assure you."

"We at Tracy Corp pride ourselves on good community relations, Ms Gleeson."

"This is a democracy, Mr Tracy."

Alan couldn't remember any other enterprise group having problems, but then it wasn't his interest. He would rather man the space station than be seen in a Tracy Corp office and even the space duty he shared with John on a month-on, month-off basis was not his favourite appointment.

"Later," his father said. "My sons and that poor girl are our priority."

"I've arranged for the head of hospital Administration to meet you. We do need to show a little care getting into the hospital. I understand there's a full contingent of media camped out there. Let me handle them, Mr Tracy. It'll sound better coming from a woman. The sympathetic angle would look good."

"I want to know who the girl is. I want to show our horror and sadness at such an accident. And I want to demonstrate our willingness to make full amends."

"As soon as possible. We'll know as soon as we get there."

As the CEO by-passed the main entrances and eased the sedan into a less populated entrance, security men rushed to open the doors and a tired looking man in a suit stood just outside the lighted doorway to greet them.

Jeff turned to Alan. "Find Gordon. He must be here someplace."

"He hasn't been admitted," Ms Gleeson told Jeff. "I'll have security find him for you."

"No," Jeff countermanded in a tone Alan was used to hearing. "You find him, Alan. And, son. Keep your voice down. Your accent is distinctive. We don't want a reporter hearing it."

"Okay, Father. Will do." He had to bite his tongue to stop from saying FAB as was their normal call sign of agreement. He watched as his father was taken in hand by Catrina Gleeson. Wait till Gordo hears that the new CEO is younger than Scott.

* * *

"Oh, water baby. How about I run your yellow tin can down the runway ramp? How many knots do you reckon she'd do on land? Hey? Oh, water baby. Come watch me."

Gordon was the only aquanaut in the family and had shown an early fascination with anything wet but if there was something he hated, it was being called water baby and that ran a second to anyone else manning his Thunderbird.

"Oh, water baby, I feel mean today. I think dual overruns should get me thirty knots."

Alan. He was going to kill him. His life wouldn't be worth living if he touched his machine.

Gordon groaned and swiped at the voice that was mocking him so near to his face. He flinched when his hand met flesh that was closer than he expected. Gordon struggled to open his eyes and he couldn't believe he was staring straight into Alan's smirking face. He blinked. Outside he could see it was getting light but inside the waiting room, it was still the same old day. The lights were on, and the suffering and scared milled waiting their turn for treatment.

Then he recalled with a start the close shave he'd had when he walked out of Emergency, earlier. Thankfully, the media crew was temporarily distracted by a car that came through the emergency lane and he escaped back inside before he was noticed. He'd found an unoccupied corner of the waiting room and had finally lain down to sleep when he couldn't keep awake any longer, tucked up across five chairs that someone had graciously spared him. Alan was balanced on his haunches right in front of him, a hand squeezing his shoulder.

"Good to see you, Gordo. How you doing, huh? You weren't hurt, I hope. I've been worried sick."

Alan embraced him. Warmly. Tightly. Gordon grinned before grimacing as he tried to move. Forget being stiff tomorrow. "How are they doing, Al? Scott? Virg? That girl? Any news? What time is it? Where's Dad?"

"Steady. Let's get you upright, first. Man. Look at the state you're in. You'd scare even the medical staff. Come on. Let's find Dad. He's got the latest."

* * *

In hospital administration, Jeff Tracy came forward in his chair, suppressing a howl of disbelief.

"Hubert Kreuzer's daughter! Are you saying my son hit Hubert's daughter, Amber? Our Chief Engineer's daughter? My son hit one of our own employees?"

His gaze shifted from the administrator to the CEO. Ms Gleeson appeared just as surprised. Jeff stood up, bringing to mind all he remembered about the man.

Hubert Kreuzer had worked as Chief Engineer in TC New York. A steadfast, brilliant designer for their company who had been lured from Eastern Europe as a very young man in search of opportunities. Jeff had come to respect the man's ideas enough to allow him to develop his radical ideas for alternative fuel engines, a fervent interest of Jeff's with a depletion of fossil-fuel energy sources. Kreuzer's wife had passed on many years back, leaving the man and a daughter alone in the US.

He remembered when Hubert had shown him pictures of Amber as she'd travelled the world, backpacking across every continent before choosing to call Australia home and to work part time in administration for Tracy Corp. An ultra petite eighteen-year-old with an eggshell white complexion. Hubert had followed, accepting a demotion to be closer to his daughter. That was only last year.

Alarm bells rang. Jeff's face turned to stone.

How could this happen? The boys weren't expected in the city until the morning and they certainly weren't supposed to be sprinting to the airport at 2 am. Three Tracys injured, the com-watch stolen, and an employee near death. What were the odds?

"She was knocked from her scooter," the administrator went on.

_Scooter? __Scooter__? How could John have missed that? None of the boys had mentioned anything about a motor scooter_.

"—right near her flat."

_What was she doing on a dark and wet street at two o'clock in the morning? Gordon hadn't relayed anything about a helmet or a scooter? How could they not know about this?_

"Ms Kreuzer is in a critical condition. I can't reveal her full details but the extent of damage to her lower extremities is extensive."

Jeff swallowed a groan of anguish. "Hubert's here?"

"Yes, he's waiting outside ICU for her to come back. She's still in surgery."

"I must see him."

Ms Gleeson came at him with her hands clasped in front of her. "Mr Tracy. Jeff. That might not be a good idea. Let us handle this for you – at least in the preliminary stages of negotiations. I'm sure you're anxious Tracy Corporation is seen to do everything possible for their employees."

"I'll meet with him. I'll approach him as a father and a friend. Whatever offer of help will be made directly from me and not Tracy Corporation."

"Jeff. That's noble but this is a delicate situation. Legally. There's no telling how he'll react when he finds out your son has done the damage."

"I disagree. I'll go personally. When will my sons be up to visitors? I want the latest."

The administrator checked his computer. "Your younger son, Virgil, is in recovery and should be awake shortly. Everything went well. He should be up and about in a day or so."

"I want security tight around those boys. I want to know the minute Virgil's fit for travel. And I want him transferred to private quarters as soon as possible."

What a difference it would have made to know they had two International Rescue operatives under their roof. But that wasn't going to happen, even if they saw him as an overstressing father. Jeff felt the organisation had been split wide open – belly to brain. The operatives were scattered across half the South Pacific, without the ability to communicate and without the luxury of the secure quarters at base. He'd rarely felt so vulnerable.

"A place in the secure unit has already been arranged for your older son, Scott. Your son will be subject to an on-going police investigation and they've stipulated the terms he's to be held here. The police have his blood alcohol report, Mr Tracy. He was over the legal blood alcohol content limit for this country of .05. No doubt your solicitor will explain what this means.

"He will also be in surgery for some time to come. The preliminary report suggests he requires orthopaedic surgery to repair comminute fractures to both bones of his forearm. Also microsurgery to repair a severed flexor muscle group and associated nerve damage. The surgeons will go over it with you in due course and explain it when the full extent of damage is assessed."

As Jeff was taking all the man was telling him, the door slid open and Alan's beaming face rounded the edge of the door.

"Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt." Alan nodded to the other two people in the room then focused on Jeff. "Found something we lost. Thought you'd want to see."

Alan opened the door wider to reveal Gordon standing in the doorway and looking like he was about done in.

Jeff rushed him and embraced him. "Thank goodness. Son?"

"We're real sorry, Dad." Gordon rested his head on his father's shoulder.

"As long as you're safe. By the look of you, you need rest. And plenty of it."

Ms Gleeson walked to them. "The offer of the corporate office suite still stands. Self-contained accommodation and private office space."

"Right, boys. We take it for now. Go back to Tracy Corporation and get cleaned up."

"I'll arrange a private physician to attend. Immediately," Ms Gleeson said.

Jeff put up his hand to stop her. "That's not necessary. We have everything we need. Make sure that entire floor is sealed off. No-one is to gain access to that floor unless I say so. If you'll excuse me, I want a word with my boys."

Jeff shepherded them back out into the hospital corridor and briefly relayed the condition of Amber and their brothers. He watched their faces turn to mystification then alarm then fear when Scott's predicament was mentioned.

"There was no scooter." Gordon shook his head. "No way. I didn't see any motor scooter."

"Dad, something's not right," Alan said. "Why use Tracy Corp facilities when the threat seems to be coming from there – though, honestly, I can't see how?"

"We designed that place. We know its strengths and weaknesses. It's the best we can do for now. Until Virgil's ready to go. Then we draw back to Bonga and set up a forward command there. A day or two at the most."

"What about Scott?"

"He'll stay where he is."

"Dad, Scott said someone took his picture," Gordon said as he leaned heavily against the wall.

"What?"

"I was in Emergency. I heard him shout something about a picture. I think someone took his picture. It was hard to tell. He sounded mighty upset."

"Scott?" Alan said in disbelief. "Our Scott?"

Gordon nodded.

Jeff covered his face with his hands as he thought then stood up straight. "Listen up. Here's what we do…"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Alan pushed back the double doors to the Tracy penthouse and pulled Gordon in behind by his belt buckle. "Will you look at this!"

It was a massive space of many rooms, opulently furnished with minimalist, sleek-lined furniture and with dabs of bright colour selectively placed around the fittings. He could see full-length windows in each of the rooms, looking east, the sun an orange ball low in the sky. It looked over the airfield and out across white sand to blue, blinking water.

"That Ms Gleeson sure likes red," Alan said.

"I don't give a rat's arse about the decor. The bed, Al. Where's the bed, for Pete's sake?" Gordon lurched on his feet. It'd taken most of Alan's cajoling and physical encouragement to get him up to the top floor.

Alan dashed from room to another, stopping at the last. "In here. And it's massive."

Gordon mechanically followed and would've sprawled straight onto it had not Alan held him back.

"No way are you getting in like that. No way. Shower first. By then Brains'll be here to check you over."

Gordon stood helplessly as Alan undressed him, turned on the shower and pushed him into it. Alan pulled back the bed and, as he passed the window, tapped on the glass. The one thing about being IR was that paranoia about security was handed out with the uniform.

"Hmm. Nice and thick. I hope that'll be okay."

When Gordon finally turned off the shower, Alan was ready with a towel to dry him off and he barely got the towel on him when Gordon climbed into the bed with a groan and pulled the sheet over himself.

As Alan prowled the expansive space someone spoke on an intercom then Brains was there pushing a trolley from the lift. It was piled with black metallic boxes and Alan rushed to help him.

"Big table in the dining room for those. Gordo's in bed. Father thought you could check him over."

Brains took a scanner from a box and followed. Alan snickered when Gordon barely moved while Brains ran the routine check.

"He's –uh- okay, Alan. Some bruising from the –uh- seat belt. He's exhausted."

"Thanks Brains." They left Gordon to sleep, closing the door to the bedroom. Brains went over to one of the black boxes and slid out a laptop computer.

"While I –uh- was waiting I managed to –uh- partially reconfigure the com-watch. I've –uh- managed to shut off transmission from Five but we –uh- can still receive."

"So we can hear them but they can't hear us?"

He opened a file and immediately a voice eerily entered the room.

"_Hello. Hello. Can anyone hear us_?" A male called from the device. "_Calling International Rescue. Hello. Can you hear us?_"

Alan groaned. "They recognised John. What are they doing with it? Can you tell where it is?"

"Well, so far it's –uh- in one piece. It hasn't gone –uh- far from where Scott lost it –uh- and it's not far from here."

* * *

"Hubert?"

Jeff approached his company's engineer and stood back from him five feet, waiting for him to respond. The older man didn't appear to hear him. As Jeff expected, the man was the epitome of grief. He was alone in one corner of a guest lounge outside ICU, and sitting forward in his chair with his shoulders slumped. One hand held his glasses while the other rubbed above his eyes.

Jeff knew that had been him when they'd nearly lost Gordon back those few short years ago.

"Hubert," Jeff said, a little louder.

The man looked up with a start, struggled to focus then stood up. "Mr Tracy? Jeff?"

"I came as soon as I heard. I'm very, very sorry." Jeff laid a hand on his shoulder.

The man was perplexed. "You came? For me?"

"I came as soon as I heard what happened. I'm here to offer whatever help I can, Hubert. You know I count you as a friend. Whatever you need."

"Well, I'm…" He struggled to find words. It had taken many years for his new homeland to mask his harsh accent but Jeff noticed it was back. "Some drunken maniac… So fast on wet roads…how could they be so stupid?"

Jeff sat down and encouraged Hubert to sit beside him. "I'll wait with you if that's all right."

Jeff waited, his own heart rate pounding heavily. He would tell Hubert. He had to tell him. It was a matter of timing.

John kicked open the door to the Tracy Corp penthouse and gladly unloaded the silver cases, slim-line laptop and gigantic canvas bag from his person in the doorway.

"Yoh, kid. Y'here?"

Alan bounded in from another room. "Brain's found the com-watch. Penelope should be here any minute to take care of it. And you won't believe what job Father's given us. Good trip? That escape pod hasn't been used very often."

John shrugged out of the black bomber jacket he was wearing. He didn't like to think it was the only time the pod had been deployed from Thunderbird Five and he was a little apprehensive about using it. It had been a rough re-entry with the storm over the Pacific but he had landed at Bonga with no problems.

"Hey, you know, nice scenery, lousy service. What's the latest? Virg? Scott?"

Alan relayed the latest and helped take his load into the dining room.

"Looks like the Tracys have arrived," John said at the sight of the equipment taking shape around Brains. He was about to add to it substantially by providing a sophisticated communication link to Five. "Hey, Brains."

"John. Good trip?"

"Thanks to you."

Brains smiled distantly before he went back to his work.

"How's Gordo?" John said to Alan.

Alan put his fingers to his lips as he encouraged John to the partially closed door of the bedroom. "Dad said to keep an eye on him. He hasn't moved."

John pushed back the door and tiptoed in the room. Both brothers grinned.

"He's making those sweet snoring noises," John whispered. "Like when he was a kid."

"Should we record it?"

_It was tempting. __Damn__, it was tempting._ Gordon was like litmus, his intensity of humour and practical jokes an indicator of the state of their family. When things were going well, they knew they would be in for it from Gordon. Things that would squirt, explode or made rude noises could turn up anywhere, usually in the most unexpected places. Any opportunity for payback was sweet but John thought Gordon would be registering somewhere in the red right about now. Not good. He took pity on him and shook his head in answer to Alan's question as he slid a potted plant from the pocket of his jacket and placed it on the set of drawers beside his sleeping brother.

"Here's company, Gordo. Sweet dreams," John said.

"You brought your plant?" Alan almost choked.

"Didn't want her to think I'd run out on her."

Alan rolled his eyes. "You got to get out more."

They went back to the dining room where John drew out an enormous telescope from a canvas bag.

"Give me a break," Alan said. "Can't you live without that thing for a few days."

John set it up by the window, tripodding the legs then testing out the focus. "So, what's this job?"

"We," Alan puffed out his chest. "We've been given permission to access NTBS."

John was dubious. "You sure it wasn't as in _me_?" John was also a little disturbed. They'd always believed in the freedom of the press, particularly the world-wide news service – the only exception was when it came to the Thunderbirds. This was a different matter. They'd screwed up. They'd involved a civilian.

"We are allowed to access NTBS. Scott thinks someone took his picture and Dad wants us to intercept it or any other picture they drag up of Scott. He thinks it's the only way to save us. Someone'll make the connection between TC and IR for sure if his image is all over the papers. We have to stop that picture."

* * *

"Hubert. There's something I need to tell you."

Back in the waiting room, Jeff had chosen the moment. He'd let Hubert rant and pace and say out loud the confused, hurt things that any parent would in a situation like this. The man was finally quiet, depleted, a little more accepting of the accident.

"I came here because I was called here. Not as a representative of Tracy Corporation but as a father." Jeff paused when Hubert's head came up. "Two of my boys are in this hospital right alongside your Amber."

"How…can this be?"

"My son was driving, Hubert. My eldest. Scott. Virgil was also in the car. They're both injured."

Hubert's mouth sagged slightly. "I know these. I don't understand. How is this—"

"My son is responsible for the accident, Hubert, and I want to make amends in whatever way I can."

Hubert's hands pressed against the sides of his head. "Your son has hurt my daughter?"

"I offer the best help money can buy. At your disposal. Whatever your daughter needs."

"Money?"

"Scott will be punished for this. You have my word. If it's any consolation, Scott is unlikely to fly again. You know the machines he loves to fly. They tell me his right arm is badly damaged."

Hubert stared at him and Jeff was prepared for the anger that would follow. "That does nothing. He caused this by his own stupidity and carelessness. So be it."

"I come to you as a father who grieves the wrong his son has done."

The man turned away. "Enough. Enough. No more. Let me be."

"Hubert. I want to help. I offer anything you need."

"Need? What I need is my daughter. Can you give me her? No. Go. Get away from me. You and your money."

* * *

Virgil was on the point of remembering something and couldn't quite capture what it was. His thoughts were like wisps that became disembodied and floated away when he tried to hold onto them. He groaned his frustration and raised his hand to his forehead. There was something he had to do…

He was sure it was important. If only he could remember what it was.

Then an outstretched hand rushed at him like a bolt of lightning. Sounds of shattering glass and twisting metal surrounded him.

Scott was trapped.

His arm was bleeding.

"Scott!"

"Son?"

Virgil opened his eyes cautiously, blinking at the light. His father stood at the bedside, making an attempt at a smile despite his pinched appearance.

"Welcome back, son. Scott's doing okay, don't worry."

"Dad, his arm," Virgil breathed. "I used a tourniquet. I had to do something."

"I'm sure you did the right thing."

"I'm sorry, Dad. This's my fault."

"You weren't driving, son."

"I suggested we come into the city. To unwind. It'd been a tough one. Gordon was taking it hard. I thought if we had to come into the city anyhow."

"Scott's in charge, Virgil."

Virgil rested his forearm across his eyes. "I could've stopped him."

"Stopped him from doing what? You mean from drinking? Or from getting behind the wheel while intoxicated?"

"He wasn't intoxicated."

"Over the legal limit for this country is intoxicated. The authorities here are extremely strict, much stricter than the US, and penalties are severe. Not only was he driving, he was about to fly a jet and then fly a multi-million dollar Thunderbird to a rescue. He should have deferred to Gordon or you."

"We'd all had a few drinks, Dad. Gordon included. Scott'd had three. That's all. _Three_. You stood him down, remember. He wasn't expecting to be needed and you know the terrible week he's had. The car was fitted with a _Gauntlet_ interlock. There's no way it would have let him drive if he was impaired. This is not his fault, Dad. John told him the street was clear. Scott wasn't being irresponsible." Virgil rubbed his face with his hand. "He hadn't eaten. The alcohol has gone straight to his bloodstream. That's what has happened."

"It doesn't change the outcome, son. How long has this been going on?"

Virgil licked at his dry lips. The foul taste in his mouth made him wish for a drink of water. "Don't know what you mean."

"I wondered if something was up with Scott but I thought I could trust any of you to pass on concerns that might jeopardise our operation."

Despite the after-effects of the anaesthetic, Virgil was indignant at the implications. "Scott never jeopardised anything. He saved Gordon's life today. He had to haul Gordon out. Gordon wouldn't let go of that boy's hand. It was horrible."

"Look, Virgil. The last thing I want is to argue with you but if Scott's got a problem I need to know about it. I'm sure relieved everyone's survived. I'm mighty thankful you're all right. But the fact remains Scott was involved in a wreck and he had alcohol in his system."

Virgil didn't want to say anymore about Scott. His head felt woozy and he didn't want to say anything he might regret, anything Scott might regret. "Have you found out about the girl?"

"Her name is Amber Kreuzer, Hubert Kreuzer's daughter."

Virgil frowned. "Tracy Corporation Kreuzer?"

"The same."

"How the hell did that happen?"

"That's what we're going to find out."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"Gotcha!" John said as he exercised his fingers above the keyboard in the Tracy Penthouse like a pianist might while warming up.

Next to him, Alan leaned on the chair across his shoulder. "All right!"

They gave each other a high five. There on the screen was an article for the next morning's paper including a picture of Scott. It wasn't a recent photograph. It was from Scott's Air Force days. He was in his uniform and it was a scathing write-up.

"Yeah, that'd be right," Alan said and sneered. "Rub it in. From decorated fighter pilot to drunk driver. Took you long enough, Johnno." Alan turned to the far end of the dining table. "Found it, Penelope."

"That was tricky," John drawled. He rubbed his eyes. He felt like he'd been at it for hours. "Their IDS is robust. As soon as I attempted entry, I was tracked. Followed, sneaky like. Had to take the last resort option."

"What's that?"

"Re-create Ned Cook's authentication and get in that way."

"No way. Gordo'll kill you. That info was given to him, in trust."

Since Gordon had saved journalist Ned Cook from certain death when the Empire State Building collapsed, they'd kept in contact, the journalist doing them favours to keep word about International Rescue in the media to a minimum.

John held up his hands. "Following orders. Didn't say I liked it."

He pushed back in the seat as Lady Penelope left her whispered conference with Brains to come to stand between the brothers. John smelt sweet flowers and something stronger and, as she read the article, there was only the rustle of her lemon linen suit to distract him.

"Oh dear. Yes. One should never expect to read well of one in this kind of predicament, I suppose. Still. Poor Scott. I do hope he doesn't read it. He doesn't deserve this. And I pity your father."

Penelope went back to talk to Brains.

"Scott is _sooo_ dead," Alan said to John. "Dad was livid when he found out. And I mean livid."

"Give Dad some credit. He's worried sick."

"No, not about the accident. About the – you know." Alan made the shape of a cup with his hand and raised it to his mouth. "That's what did it. He went ballistic. He's asked me about Scott before but there's no way I'd tell on Scott."

John frowned. "You saying Scott's got a problem?"

Alan made a worried face towards Penelope then lowered the volume of his voice. "I don't know if he's got a problem, exactly. I've just noticed he's – not quite himself. Drinking more than normal. I mean. Okay, we do, too. But I know he stays up late. By himself. I know he does."

"Since when?" John said indignantly, not liking to miss out on family business just because he was hundreds of miles away in space.

"Since Dad put International Rescue on a budget last month."

"A budget? How can you put IR on a frigging budget?"

"Dad's put the operational side on one. Scott has to account for and justify every expense. Every plaster, every bandage. Dad says he's thinking of the future when Scott has to head this whole show. Said Scott needs to demonstrate he knows how to manage money and not just spend it." John rubbed his hands over his face and groaned, thinking of what it'd like if he had to account for every expense on Thunderbird Five. "Scott and Dad had words, strong words over it. Blue haze for days. Scott hates it. Absolutely hates it. He's as mad as hell. He's drowning in paperwork, John. You know, sometimes I feel sorry for him. Not often, but sometimes."

John rested his hands on his face and tried to think of how that policy could possibly work.

"So, what are you waiting for?" Alan said. "For them to print it? Get rid of it."

"Not so fast, little brother. If all the pictures of Scott start disappearing, someone's going to notice. It'll only encourage some poor bastard to dig up another one. No, we don't get rid of it, we alter it. That way people won't be so sure it is Scott. Leave doubt, not create more suspicion." John clasped his hands in front of his face. "Now the question is; What do we do to change it so it's different but still like our Scotty?"

"You mean like big ears and a long nose, maybe a moustache."

"Do that and no-one will believe it is him. Don't forget most of the female population south of the Canadian border knows what Scott looks like. Up close and personal. Our serial stud used to have quite a following."

"Yeah, but that was probably only in the dark. Hey, you don't give us blond-bombshells enough credit. We've done our bit for the reputation of masculinity."

John grinned crookedly. _Oh, yeah. They'd done their bit, all right._

The one thing that rankled John was the contradiction in their father's outlook. The future meant new recruits but they couldn't add strangers to the ranks. It had to be family. Dad was the biggest believer in family values – fidelity, love, marriage. They'd been brought up that way. And yet, he denied it to his sons. He winked at their infidelity, their numerous affairs. And he denied them their need for relationship and intimacy – the very thing they'd been taught to treasure and idealise.

John had managed okay. He was content in company or without, female or male. Sometimes it was nice to have sex other than in his dreams but he was not bothered by it. Virgil called him insular but he was often just happy in his own company.

With his natural charm and dark looks, Scott could love them hard then leave them just as quickly, without a backward look. For some reason women would clamour for his company and he'd happily oblige – for awhile. Then he was on the move. The restless one, was Scott.

Virgil had the most trouble with girls. He did the slow burn. His affairs were always tumultuous, frequently getting in too deep and unable to draw back. How many times had Scott rescued his younger brother from something that had developed into a relationship? Virgil seemed to slip naturally into settling down mode. He would have married many times over before acknowledging in the end it was impossible and had to rely on Scott to bail him out.

Poor Gordon. John chuckled when he thought of Gordon and girls. He was as ungainly at gaining a girl's attention as Scott was proficient. The more he liked a girl, the more tongue-tied he became. Scott had taken it on himself to show his brother a few moves but even Scott had given up. It was too painful to watch.

Of all the boys in the family, Alan was the most privileged having Tin-Tin, the daughter of his father's assistant Kyrano, as his companion and bed partner – right under his father's nose on Tracy Island. It really was unfair on the rest of them when they had to lie and cheat to get what their youngest brother enjoyed secretly in their own home.

"So, come on. Get on with it," Alan chided. "There's not only the newscasts, there's the internet sites, the bulletin boards, the narrowcasting outlets. We aren't done, yet."

"You know what I love about you, Al," John said. "Your ability to make a molehill into a mountain. I'm thinking. Give me room, here."

"Well, hurry it up. I want to get down the hospital."

"I remember what Virg said about getting a likeness. He said to see how a likeness in a portrait is made is to see the picture in a mirror." John did a few clicks to reverse the image. "Then I think some defining mark might do it."

"Those dimples have to go. Dead give away. How about a scar or a birthmark? A great red blotch over his eye."

"Definitely no more dimples. Too cutie-pie. A mole on his cheek." He tweaked the image, stretched the proportion and then sat back to admire his handiwork.

Alan altered the angle of his head and grinned slyly. "You know, that rootkit of yours is going to get you into serious heat one of these days. How easy is that. Penelope. Come look. What do you think of John's makeover?"

Penelope did come. "I say. That does look like him but it doesn't. That mole is distinctive. If anyone thinks they've seen him on a rescue they would look for that. Splendid work, boys."

"Convinced Brains of your idea?" Alan asked.

Penelope gave the ghost of a smile. "I do believe I have."

"I didn't need convincing, –uh- Alan," Brains said from across the table, turning his highly magnified eyes their way. "In my mind the need to retrieve –uh- the electronics was always balanced with the need to know who –uh- wanted to steal the watch in the first place. Particularly now with this –uh- unexpected connection to Tracy Corporation. It's a matter –uh- of how that's the problem."

John felt Penelope squeeze his shoulder in a fashion that made him glad she was on their side.

"Can I count on you boys to do a little sightseeing for Parker and myself later this evening? I'll phone with the details."

"We'll be there," both of them agreed.

Penelope smiled softly then walked to look out the window as she settled her wide-brimmed sun hat onto her styled hair.

John heard the door to the bedroom open.

"Al?" Gordon called, sounding very groggy.

"Out here, Gordo!"

"John?"

"Yeah, Squirt."

Gordon limped into the room, yawning, rubbing his eyes. He was not quite awake but quite naked. John stared at Alan then they both looked at Penelope.

"Where's my clo...thes?" he began to say before the volume of his voice trailed off.

Gordon froze. He'd seen Penelope by the window. John heard the slap of bare flesh as both Gordon's hands raced to cover his groin. Gordon blushed to the roots of his ginger hair, looking as bright as a navigation beacon.

Penelope's expression didn't change. She walked smoothly across towards the door as she made final adjustments to the angle of her hat. John could see Gordon was perishing from embarrassment as he stood transfixed to the spot. John didn't trust himself to speak and Alan watched wide-eyed.

"So glad to see you're in one piece, dear boy," Penelope said suavely as she passed Gordon. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and headed for the door.

Gordon swallowed with difficulty. "Th-anks."

"Afternoon, everyone. Parker and I feel like a spot of shopping. Then we'll see how Jeff's bearing up. We'll be in touch."

As soon as she disappeared, Gordon fled, slamming the door of the bedroom. "Did anyone think to bring me something to wear?" he yelled through the wall.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"Oh, this is so lovely!" Penelope said as she sailed through the lunchtime crowds of inner city Sydney, only a few blocks from Tracy Corporation.

The day was hot, the skies pure cobalt, a slight breeze from the harbour lifting the colourful awnings and lazy flags. The street was strewn with alfresco dining eateries. People lounged and lolled in the shade of generous umbrellas while sun-tanned youths in white uniforms served them. Shoppers pushed their bags out from quaint refurbished stone buildings to merge with the overhead trees and the slow-moving traffic. It always reminded her of England but the pace and colour gave her the tingle of something fresh.

Parker on the other hand, she observed on her many efforts to slow down so as not to lose him, was having a time of it. Right from when she declared they'd walk to their destination and not take the distinctive pink Rolls Royce, his face carried a twinge of concern. His efforts to shield her from the noon sun with her parasol were ineffectual as he negotiated the busy footpath beside and behind her. His button-up uniform was not helping as she could see the sweat gathered in the creases of his ample-sized nose.

"Nearly there, Parker," she reassured him.

"Very good, milady," he said as he puffed.

"Now remember what we planned."

"Right you h'are."

Penelope stopped suddenly to recheck the address Brains had given her and Parker nearly bumped into her. He mumbled an apology.

"There it is. That's the position of the com-watch."

Opposite them on the other side of the street was 'The People's Whole Food Co-operative', a renovated shop similar in style and age to those around them. The large window was painted in a rainbow of colour with a cornucopia of food spilling across the pane. Very clean and newly painted.

"H'are you sure, milady?"

"I'm sure, Parker. It does look rather nice, doesn't it? At least from the outside. I've already positioned two agents to watch both entrances and they'll report in at fifteen hundred hours. There's an entrance through a back lane so we should get some idea who comes and who goes."

As they watched, young people went in and out. Young sophisticates with their suits, tiny square glasses and cropped haircuts coming out carrying paper parcels.

"Brains could detect a large area of heat coming from the rear of the shop," Penelope whispered. "John suggested it could be a hydroponics set-up for growing illicit drugs."

"H'a bad egg, milady?"

"Let's find out, shall we?"

They crossed the street and entered the shop to the sweet chime of a welcome bell. Business was brisk with shop attendants going about the store as customers pointed to white bins and picked out what they wanted to buy. It was a whole food shop. The bins contained items such as lentils and dried beans and an array of food that Penelope had rarely seen. Each purchase was weighed in a scale and shovelled into a paper bag. The people paid with cash on their way out, a sight so unusual Penelope stared longer than she thought was polite.

"Can I help you?" a young man with overly long curly hair and those trendy little glasses asked her with the raise of his eyebrows.

"Oh, isn't this wonderful. It reminds me of a long-gone era," Penelope enthused.

"When people ate real food from the ground and not pre-packaged manufactured products?" He was tall and clean-cut in most ways, his hair tending to bob in waves when he spoke and moved.

"Exactly." She immediately went in search of something that might interest her and left Parker to do what he did best.

Ten minutes later, they stood back on the footpath, Parker holding up and staring into a plastic container where a blob of yellowish solid matter floated in water.

"Er, milady?"

"Tempeh, I believe he said it was. Soy beans fermented by a mould. Something new to try. Well, what do you think?"

"H'a bit off-beat for my taste. Do you eat it?"

"I believe so, Parker, but I was actually referring to the set up."

"Oh. Oh, piece of cake. Barely h'a lock in the place. Couldn't see h'an h'alarm, even. There's h'a tumbler combination behind the counter. Should take me h'about three minutes."

"Strange – but good. I'd expect more robust security measures for a drug lab. Still. That's one piece of good news for Jeff. Let's just hope the watch stays there. Come on, Parker. Some tea."

Parker found a table for them where they could see the front door of the shop. Just as Penelope placed her hat on the table a gust of wind sent it spinning into the street. Parker jumped out to save it.

"Hey, watch it!" someone called.

Parker was bumped from behind by a strange-looking contraption. Penelope stood up to watch as a motorless device sailed on down the street at speed. The rider stood on a board. Wheels were front and back and the rider clutched a crude steering device. They pushed with their foot to make the transport go.

Parker righted himself then stared with dismay as the purchase Penelope had made was splattered in a bilious fashion on the street.

"Oh, milady," he said aghast. "I do believe I just dropped your bundle."

"Never mind," she soothed. "I think I've just discovered something that'll help Jeff with his."

* * *

"John. John. Look at this!" The timbre in Alan's voice nearly hit soprano. "It's Scott. He's right. Someone did take his picture. It's on the internet."

John dashed from the kitchen and swore when he saw the screen. "Nuke it. Right now. Get rid of it, Alan. Shut it down, for mercy's sake!"

When Alan continued to stare at the screen, John took over and activated a DoS attack that was sent into the website. It would disable it in five seconds. John counted down the time. The website blue-screened. He relaxed until the website re-activated.

"Hey what?" John clicked a few more keys and the website disappeared with the same message again. And just as quickly came back on. "Brains! It's fighting back."

John and Alan moved apart as Brains took over.

"It's okay, fellas. Let me –uh- handle this."

John stepped back and rubbed his hands over his face, suddenly feeling slightly ill. There on the internet for the world population to look at was a picture of Scott taken at the accident scene. It was dark and wet and the outline of the wrecked car could be seen in the background. Scott was running towards the camera, a police officer running behind him. He was reaching for something, and obviously in a distressed state. The only saving grace was the image of Scott was slightly blurry, his face being so close to the camera and moving. The caption asked:

IS THIS THE FACE OF INTERNATIONAL RESCUE?

And underneath the caption was a photograph of the com-watch.

* * *

Back in America, a hand on the mouse of a computer paused in its almost hourly Google search. Then it made a couple of moves to go back two screen steps. The website flickered, disappeared, came back on. Just for a moment. Just enough time to be certain.

The hand became a fist.

"That's him. I know that's him. That dark-haired bastard!"

* * *

Jeff couldn't avoid it any longer. It seemed every room in the hospital had a television set on and the news was dire. International Rescue had turned down a rescue call. From the tone and urgency of the newsreaders it was as if WWIII had started. The speculation was rife and rampant. It didn't matter whether he was in the cafeteria or in the waiting room near where Scott was in recovery, he couldn't avoid the fact that now the world knew International Rescue had let the people down.

They hadn't come. They'd said 'no' to those in need and people had died that day because of it.

It made him pace. It made him churn. It made him downright angry. And it wasn't the best mood to go see his son. His injured son, he needed to keep reminding himself.

When he was finally allowed into the booth outside surgery where Scott had been left to sleep off the effects of the anaesthetic, he still hadn't quite mastered his feelings. But no matter how you prepare, it's always a shock to see your loved ones hurt. Jeff felt no different during that initial glimpse he was given of his eldest.

Jeff had been assured Scott had woken from the anaesthetic but was sedated, having come out of the surgery agitated and restive. They hoped it was a sign that feeling had been restored to his arm. Jeff stood at the side of the bed, his hands clenched around the rail that had been put up to stop Scott from rolling off in his uneasy state.

"Son?" His voice sounded hollow in the compartment where around him the rattle and clash of equipment being cleaned up were harsh.

Scott didn't respond.

Scott was lying flat out, his head turned away. It highlighted a long cut that was developing into a swollen bruise across his cheek. Where the gown had slipped from his shoulder, Jeff could see deep bruising already forming.

Jeff forced himself to look at his son's right arm. They'd explained they'd inserted an external fixator into the bones in his arm to keep the limb straight and at the right length. It was a metal construct that came straight out of the tissue of his forearm and joined into a rod running parallel to his arm, with an adjustment device at the centre. It was a macabre looking instrument. The rest of his arm was bandaged and his fingers, swollen and purple, extended motionless from the swathe.

"Scott?"

Still no response.

Jeff couldn't tell if he was asleep or awake. Scott was barely breathing, like he was holding his breath. The boy was tense – rigid, almost. There was no voluntary movement at all. It was as if he was holding himself against some blow to come.

Jeff felt a desire to reach out to reassure him that everything would be all right but something held him back. He clutched at the bedrail, instead, his knuckles whitening. Ever since Lucille, his wife, had died when the lad was nearly ten, Scott had refused physical comfort from him. He would fight him. Push him away.

_Lucille. If you can see him. Help him. Please help him. You know I can't._

Scott, being the firstborn, had enjoyed a special relationship with his mother and when she died he'd felt it the most keenly of the boys. But when Jeff broke down at the loss of the boys' mother, the little lad had put his own grief aside and had taken on responsibility as carer to his siblings. Sometimes, Jeff felt a little guilty about the load Scott had carried, mainly without complaint. And now he was carrying the responsibility of this latest tragedy.

_Reach out to him, Lucille. Reach him. Help him carry this._

"Scott?"

Still nothing.

Was the lad was shutting him out? Again?

Jeff was helpless to prevent a surge of anger. In some respects, Scott had made him redundant. It was Scott the boys went to if they had a problem. It was Scott they looked to for guidance. It was Scott they trusted with their lives. And now it was Scott they had protected from him.

So, why had Scott let them down? Why couldn't he have come for help if he had a problem? Jeff knew the answer. Scott didn't look to him for help. He never had. He'd worked things out on his own. But why had he shown his brothers such a bad example?

Jeff's grip on the bedrail became painful. He pulled back.

He knew there was only one person alive who could comfort Scott and that was Virgil. Virgil was Scott's buddy. They were inseparable. He would have to leave Virgil here instead of taking him to Bonga. Despite his overwhelming desire to gather them all back into safety, he would have to make a sacrifice. He would have to risk another son, another member of International Rescue, to save Scott from himself.

_I hope nothing happens to Virgil, Scott. How could you live with that? Lucille. Help me. Help us._

Jeff retreated to the door and stopped to look back as he left.

"I'm disappointed in the decisions you made today, son," he said sadly.

* * *

"Listen up, people." Jeff clapped his hands for silence and the dozen or so members draped around the furniture in the massive living room area of the Tracy Penthouse came to attention.

All the family members were present, now. Grandma, Tin-Tin and Kyrano had arrived from New Zealand. There was a lot to catch up on, not the least the condition of those injured.

John came in from the kitchen and sat on the floor next to Gordon, stretching to iron out a kink in his neck. Brains, Alan and he had spent the entire day chasing down Scott's picture until Brains came up with a program that would hunt and tag any copies automatically.

The mood in the room was sombre, despite the knowledge that they were about to retrieve the com-watch. The lights were low and the curtains drawn. It was past midnight and most of them hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. Even though they were tired, John suspected the downbeat mood had to do more with the fact Scott had refused to see them when they'd made the trip into the hospital. No-one was allowed in his room. Not Father, not Grandma and not his brothers. The nurses tried to soften the blow by suggesting it was because he'd had trouble sleeping but John wasn't so sure.

John rested his hand on Gordon's shoulder. Gordon had slept all day, even after his embarrassing run-in with Penelope, and still looked worn. Gordon turned with an inquiring look. John gave him a reassuring squeeze and Gordon tried to smile.

"Let's get this done," Jeff said, addressing everyone present with the sweep of his hands and the direction of his eyes. "Then we can rest before we tackle new problems tomorrow. As of this minute the com-watch is still at the premises of 'The People's Whole Food Co-operative'. And we aim to get it back. Tonight. Brains has made up a substitute watch with a tracker from the remnants of Scott's watch. We want to know who this crowd is and what threat they might be." He held up the replica. "Penelope and Parker will go into shop and make the switch. And we will make sure nothing else goes wrong while they're doing it." He gave them a run down of the set-up as observed that afternoon by Penelope and by the agents stationed out there. "There's a residential premises above so keep your wits about you. Penny?"

Penelope, dressed in figure-hugging black, stepped into the middle of the group. Without speaking, she drew a 9-mm automatic weapon from a bag and laid it at Alan's feet. Then she shifted to John and placed an identical handgun in front of him. No-one spoke as each of the boys picked up their weapon and slid it down the back of their jeans, pulling their almost identical black jackets over it.

Gordon, who was following Penelope's movements with his eyes, looked up expectantly.

"Not tonight, son," Jeff said. "You've been through enough. Go back to bed. You have a special job tomorrow and I want you fresh."

John saw Gordon sag with disappointment.

"So, what do we know about this crowd?" Alan said. "Who owns this store?"

"An organisation called 'The People for the Planet', a green activist group, opposing the further development of new technologies, particularly in third world countries. I had Ms Gleeson prepare their background and they're the ones involved in a skirmish at this building's opening."

A murmur went around the newcomers.

"The manager of the store is Martin Langley. We're working to get his image tomorrow."

"Yeah, it's more than that," John said. "They're the ones responsible for the website that Brains and I have been trying to shut down all afternoon."

"Any connection between Amber Kreuzer and this group?" Tin-Tin asked.

"Not that we've found," Jeff said. "Our CEO will have the employment files checked."

"They must have been there," Alan said. "To get the com-watch."

"Jeff, I have one piece of news I hadn't relayed to you. About the scooter."

"There can't have been a scooter," Gordon said heatedly. "She was standing up. She was upright. I saw her in the lights. Only for a second but I saw her. She must have been running."

John had gone over the recordings with Brains. There was no heat source the size of a motor bike on the screen. He hadn't erred. He hadn't missed anything and with that knowledge a tight band had removed from his chest. But even as they'd watched in muted horror as Amber dashed out in front of Scott's vehicle and the two shapes came together, the tiny image gave him shivers down his back.

"There was definitely no motor scooter," John said. "We checked."

"She was travelling –uh- at some speed," Brains said. "I estimate – uh- the velocity needed to intercept the vehicle would be –uh- greater than is possible on foot."

That comment brought on another round of murmuring.

"How?" Grandma asked. "How would that be possible?"

John let go more of the tension he'd been holding when he saw his father nod at him.

"Standing up is exactly how it would be," Penelope agreed. "That's it precisely. Something we observed today. Push or kick scooters I'm told they are called. They're all the rage with these inner city dwellers. They rely on their own power to get around. No pollution and no parking worries. And as Parker can attest, they can travel quite quickly."

"Oh yes, milady," Parker said and groaned, rubbing his rear portion.

"So, I'm thinking that this kind of scooter may explain what we've experienced but also what witnesses have seen."

There was another murmur, this time of agreement.

"Technically speaking then, as soon as the com-watch is swapped," Alan said. "International Rescue is operational again. Brains can turn the comms on."

"I admire the sentiments, son. Brains will turn the comms on as soon as the switch is made but we have two members of our family and two members of International Rescue at risk. I've decided Virgil will stay here with Scott for the time being. As the hospital officials don't know who they have under their roof, I need you boys to keep watch on them. That will be our job in the short term."

John also bet it was to keep an eye on Scott to stop him from doing anything stupid.

"Right. Be careful, tonight. And good luck."

It took less than five minutes for John, Alan, Penelope and Parker to be in the street of the shop. The Rolls was parked in a side alley, ready if a quick getaway was needed. They checked with the agent at the rear of the premises then when the all clear was given, they congregated around the front. The agent who was watching from an opposite laneway reported that everything was quiet. No-one had come out or gone in for hours. The lights in the residence above were out.

John ran the imaging and the portable camera detector past the shop and came up blank. No-one was in the shop and the interior of the shop was not being filmed. Alan and John separated to stand in shadowy corners to wait while Penelope and Parker went in. If they needed assistance, one of them would flash a light onto the window.

John leaned up against the bricks, his hands in his pockets, keeping his face turned towards the shop door. He could see his little brother pace back and forth in his usual impatient manner. As he had a few minutes to wait, he couldn't help wonder what they were doing there. He felt the firearm press into the small of his back as he leaned on the brickwork not so much for support but to reduce his shape in the dark and largely deserted street. A few restaurants were open but clientele was light, the atmosphere subdued on the warm and steamy night.

It was significant they'd been given a standard automatic and not the IR issue they normally carried. Obviously, nothing must lead back to IR. He wondered if his father actually meant him to use it. How far did his father expect him to go to protect IR technology? That's what they were doing. They were risking further exposure to get the watch. A complicated watch, but only a watch.

As John brooded on the direction their intervention had taken, his com-watch flashed and Penelope's voice floated up from his arm.

"All clear, boys. Back to the penthouse."

* * *

Once back at Tracy Corp, Gordon found they had a far more mundane matter to settle.

"There is no way I am sleeping in there," Alan said, his hands on his hips. "No way and that is final."

"We used to sleep together," Gordon said. He sat on the floor in the master bedroom, his hands resting on his knees. The light was off, the curtains drawn back, his face towards the sea. He loved the sea and he already missed their island home where the sea was available to him all day and all night.

"If you haven't noticed," Alan retorted. "We're adults. I am twenty-three, technically speaking an adult, so that would make it kinky on one side and downright wrong on the other."

"Yeah, well, technically speaking," John said as he stretched out fully clothed over the bed Gordon had been sleeping in that day. "Why don't you sleep with Tin-Tin, then? Don't know about you but I am absolutely wasted. I couldn't care less where I slept or with _whom_."

"Right between her father and Grandma. Are you crazy?"

"Have to learn to do it very, very quietly, bro," John said.

"And how—?" Alan was stopped from saying more by the rap of knuckles on their door as their father pushed his way in.

"Sorry about the sleeping arrangements, boys. There wasn't enough single accommodation on the other side of the penthouse for us all. Shouldn't be for long."

He was quickly reassured there was no problem.

Jeff sat down on the bed. "I appreciate the good job you all did, today. Gordon, don't take this too hard. You're needed tomorrow."

"What's wrong with Scott?" Alan asked.

"Look. No doubt, he's mighty upset at what's happened. I want you to watch out for him the next couple of days. Okay. That's your job. Look out for both of them. And I don't want you to bother Scott with too many details of what's happening. I don't want him to think about things. He must have rest. And plenty of it."

"He won't even let us in his room," Gordon said.

"He'll come round. You'll see. I meet with his physician and the administrator, tomorrow. We see what's to be done, then."

"Scott won't like it if we don't tell him anything," Alan said. "He'll know if we're not straight with him."

"He needs rest, son, so I expect you to be at your diplomatic best."

John snorted but Alan ignored him. "Couldn't International Rescue issue a statement about why we're not attending distress calls? It's all over the news and people everywhere are talking. Maybe if they knew that there was something wrong."

"And what could I say, Alan? We can't afford to let our enemies know we're vulnerable. It's the opportunity they'd be looking for."

"Well…maybe. Hey, great to have the com-watch back," Alan said. "That was so easy."

"Yeah," John drawled. "Too easy."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"Think you're up to it, son?"

Next morning, Jeff stood shoulder to shoulder with Gordon outside the opaque doors of ICU. They'd been standing there for some time, catching glimpses of Hubert at Amber's bedside each time personnel passed through the doors. Gordon looked at him and Jeff was struck by the sorrow in his son's eyes.

"We usually save lives, Dad. We don't normally take them."

Jeff put his arm around Gordon's shoulder. "This is a terrible, terrible accident. There is no way any of us would want this. You said Amber wasn't breathing when you arrived so you did save her life. Hubert hasn't met you so he doesn't have to know you're a Tracy, at least not at first. Show them our care. You know what's ahead if she's granted the opportunity. Help her through this. Think you can do it?"

Gordon nodded slowly. "Anything I can."

Jeff left Gordon standing there in the corridor with some misgivings. Gordon had given them a fright earlier when he'd woken up screaming. His brothers had first thought it was an undetected injury from the accident but when they'd finally been able to wake him, all he said was that the hands had touched him. That was all he said, and it was enough to send the jitters through all of them.

When Jeff was finally able to see Scott's physician as they'd arranged, he wished he'd taken up Penelope's offer to accompany him. There was quite a group waiting for him. The administrator, Ms Gleeson, the surgeon who was introduced as Dr Rossiter, and a police officer. Introductions were brief and terse and there were a number of computer files open on the desk. Jeff could tell he wasn't going to enjoy this meeting so he decided to go on the offensive.

"I want my sons together, either in the same room or next door. It's imperative for security and their wellbeing. Has this been done?"

Jeff could see Dr Rossiter was a man who considered his words and limited his physical output. The physician nodded distinctly.

"As you have requested. We would like to discuss each of your son's future treatment requirements. But first we do have a few questions for you," he paused as if to consider his words. "We are mystified as to the whereabouts of your sons' medical records. Scans for Scott and Virgil show numerous broken bones and soft tissue injuries, some recent, some healed. They seem unusually accident-prone."

It was one consequence of International Rescue Jeff hadn't anticipated. The dangerous occupation meant they were often injured in some way. Mostly minor but there had been occasions when they'd sustained more serious injuries. Due to the frequency of the injuries, medical practitioners often asked awkward questions as to how these could occur. To stall off any suspicion, they treated as much as possible on the island.

"My sons are pilots, Dr Rossiter. They test experimental craft. It's dangerous work."

The physician frowned. "You don't provide parachutes, Mr Tracy?"

"We have our own medical staff at Tracy Corporation," he hedged. "We have our own fully equipped facilities so their records are not public information."

"In relation to Scott. We were wondering about his mental health prior to the accident. When he presented he was incoherent and combative, more so than we would expect."

"No problems," he heard himself saying, though at the same time doubting it.

"Do you know anyone by the name of John?"

"My middle son."

"I believe Scott was talking to him after the accident, even shouting at him. Yet I understand he wasn't there."

Jeff feigned laughter as he spread his hands. "Look. It's harmless. It's something they've done since they were children."

"Your son is refusing to communicate and to eat. He is on IV for now but if this situation continues we will need to commence tube feeding. That is not a nice thing, Mr Tracy. We would like to send Scott for a full psychological assessment and we would like your support in this decision. Scott has full control of his treatment options but if we knew you agreed…"

Jeff knew Scott would implode at the suggestion. "Certainly not. If there's a problem Virgil will sort it out."

"Mr Tracy," Dr Rossiter said with forced patience. "We are at this moment drawing up a care plan for Scott in co-operation with the police."

"When will you charge my son?" Jeff asked the police officer.

"There are still details. For any charges we lay, we will not be posting bail. We consider him a serious flight risk."

"Then I'll appeal to a judge."

"When the magistrate hears your son attempted to flee the scene."

Flee the scene. Never Jeff knew Scott would never tolerate being called a coward. It was the lowest insult anyone could put on him.

"My son had his watch stolen!" Jeff thundered.

"Expensive one, was it?" the officer said a little sarcastically. "I don't think the magistrate will appreciate your son's priority, considering all that was going on around him."

"It's an extremely important one."

"Considering his predicament and observed behaviour, we assess the potential for self-harm is high," Dr Rossiter said. "Mr Tracy. I have the power to keep your son here until I consider he is well enough to be released. As soon as he is released he will certainly be taken into custody. A hospital would be an infinitely more desirable and safer place for Scott than remand, don't you think. I ask you. Do you think Scott has any mental health issues that need our attention?"

Jeff stared at those watching him. Ms Gleeson appeared to find this discussion distasteful. It would not help Scott to have his mental health questioned but it wouldn't help any of them if he were in jail and open to attack. Was there _any_ potential for Scott to hurt himself, given what had just happened?

Damn it! Scott took his responsibilities very seriously.

"All right. We'll go your way for now, Dr Rossiter but I want to be told of all developments."

"Thank you. Please be assured we have your son's best interests at heart."

"I want limited numbers of staff to have access to them."

"We will arrange it, Mr Tracy."

"One thing, Mr Tracy," the police officer said. "How did your sons come into this country? Immigration can't seem to find any record of their entry."

_Damn. Damn. Damn._

* * *

"Hey, did you know that our big brother is on the _Bastards Incorporated _website?" Alan whispered to John across the Tracy penthouse table. "You know where jilted lovers put on all the gory—"

"I know what it is, Alan." John came around to see what Alan was looking at. He was sick of computer screens, mopping up what seemed like endless talk about their eldest. Thanks to Gordon, they'd had very little sleep and for John it was only the knowledge that he had drawn first watch at the hospital that kept his darkening mood in check. "What have you got?"

"An old post. Back…let's see…must be the year we started IR. This girl is claiming Scott ran off without a word. No letters. No reply to her letters. It seemed to be renewed quite often. Can't move on."

"A kid," John croaked. "She claimed he fathered her child. Shit."

"John. You know this stuff. Most of it is bullshit. We get accused of doing all sorts of things. I remember after Parola Sands, one —"

"Yeah, all right. I suppose you're right." John rubbed his face when a light on his com-watch flashed. "John here, Father."

"Get into Immigration," his father said. "Get your brothers entry permission. Immigration is after them."

* * *

Gordon saw Amber's father come out of ICU and go into a lounge. The man was stooped, his hair uncombed, his grey beard unkempt. Gordon watched him go and hesitated. He waited a few minutes then drew a deep breath as he went in after him.

"Excuse me, sir, I couldn't help notice you sit by that young woman's bed. They told me they'd brought her in here. The young woman who was – struck – by the car. I was there, you see and I was wondering how she's doing."

Hubert froze. "You?"

"Yes, sir. I was the first there. I was wondering if she's okay. I had to give her CPR and I was wondering – well – if she came through."

The man's face brightened. "They told me she was saved by you people there. You? You saved my Amber?"

"Well, there was a doctor, too, but I was just wondering how Amber was doing."

"Oh, my lord!" Hubert came at him joyously and Gordon tried not to wince as the man squeezed him. "You save my daughter. How can I repay? I must give you reward. I must."

"No, please, I was just wondering, you know."

The man pulled back, tears on his cheeks, and Gordon found he was being scrutinised at arm's length.

"Come. Sit. Tell me. Oh, my. You saved her. Thank you. Thank you."

* * *

Back in the US, a hand ran down a uniform and straightened a hat on a head that was past its prime, a form wearied and aged prematurely by loss and grief. The hand touched the photograph on the desk then saluted it with the ease and crispness of experience. There was a black case beside the photograph and in it was an assortment of weapons. The hand hovered over many before settling on one that pleased it.

"Our fellow countrymen and women," a voice shouted. "We must unite against the scourge of evil on our streets. We must protect ourselves. We must fight those who threaten our country, our families. We must punish those who take our children."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

John stretched his hands back over his head and the chair tilted as he lifted his feet onto the sill of the hospital's window.

"I'm thinking of checking in here, Virg. Exhaustion, you know. Sure smells good what you're eating."

Virgil pushed up against the raised bed and poked at his food with a fork. "Something Grandma rustled up from the local store. You know Dad won't let us eat the hospital food."

"From what I hear, that's the way they drum up business. Eat up, Virg. Not like you to leave anything."

"How's Amber?"

"Doing okay. They're keeping her asleep but they're going to bring her round soon."

Virgil pushed vegetables around his plate distractedly. "I'm worried."

"Yeah, I know. Give him time. Imagine what you'd feel like. Pretty damned overwhelming if anyone's asking. Maybe if he could get some sleep he'd feel better."

"He's not going to sleep in here. He hates these places. In fact, I think he's afraid of them after being there when Mom – you know."

John could see a plane take off from the airport. "Look. At least you two'll feel at home."

He pointed to the plane.

"But that's just it. He has to look at that. You didn't see his arm, John. It's a mess. What if he can't…can't _fly_? He needs two hands to fly One."

"There's a lot of what-ifs, Virg. One step, you know."

"Are Thunderbirds One and Two still at Bonga?"

"Ye-up. Being watched, don't worry."

"Why not take them back where they're safe?"

"The island's taken a hit. Alan said it was touch and go getting out in the jet. To get Two down, we have to clear the runway and I guess Dad's thinking you two are more important."

"I don't like this, John. Feels creepy. We're wide open."

"Yeah, know what you mean. Hey, if you don't want to stay."

Virgil eased his position with a wince. "Don't even suggest it. I'm with Scott."

"Thought you'd see it that way. Oh, before I forget. From Brains. Dad's orders." John slipped what looked like a sweet from his pocket and tossed it onto Virgil's tray.

Virgil screwed up his nose. "Not an edible transmitter?"

"Can't use the com-watch around here. Might send someone into V-fib. We've contributed enough guests to this place."

"Argh. Do I have to?" Virgil lowered the volume of his voice to a whisper. "They give me – you know – gas."

John grinned. "Then I'll remember to stay upwind." He got up from the chair and fingered the lock on the door that separated the rooms. "So, what do you figure? Think I should make a full-scale assault on this?"

"It's locked – from the other side. The nurse checked."

"About ninety seconds."

"I'm allowed up later, I'll do it."

When John went back to luxuriate in the chair, a light on his watch flashed. He groaned loudly. "What now? You owe me, Virg. I not only had to hack into NTBS, I had to access the frigging Australian government's site. The dogs should be at bay – for now. You came in by Tracy jet, okay. Pass it on. I'm sure the cops will work out a way around Dad some time soon to see you. Brother, with all this hacking, it'll be me going downtown and without the key. My rootkit is smoking. I'll be back – I hope."

John hurried downstairs to the entrance foyer to answer the call on his watch. Penelope eased from a seat to stand next to him, her expression inscrutable.

"Security alerted us that someone had come in asking after Scott. He claimed to be media." She slid out a printout. "He looks like the gentleman who served me in the Co-operative. Did Alan have any joy finding a picture of Martin Langley?"

John took the black and white image to study. "Yep, that's him."

"I think we should follow. Parker's radioed that he's on foot and headed north. Your father is expecting some kind of threat. It would be good to see who else may be involved. To see how big the threat is."

"Sure throwing down the challenge to Brains. That site keeps re-activating. It looks like they've stopped using their phones. We haven't been able to pick up any transmissions from the store. This guy is stacking up cunning. You've already been close. What's say I go."

"FAB, John. I'll wait here. We don't want this to be some sort of distraction to draw us away. Jeff should finish his meeting with the solicitor shortly. I'll keep him informed."

John left Penelope and, with Parker's guidance, managed to get within half a block of his target, keeping an eye out for anyone else who may have been following. Martin Langley was reasonably tall and his shirt shone a brilliant white. John had no trouble seeing him through the mill of people. His quarry was headed towards the shop and John estimated they were about four blocks from there. In a direct triangulation, Tracy Corporation was three blocks to the east and the hospital back three blocks.

Martin had not spoken to anyone or shown interest in any of the other business premises. He walked with his head down as if he was thinking. He carried something black and silver in his hand, which John thought was a mobile phone or something similar.

At the next intersection, Martin crossed ahead of him and John waited impatiently at the lights. Then he saw Martin change course, cross the street and turn into a lane. John skirted the traffic, kept on his side of the road and stopped to look up the lane. No sign of Martin.

_Great, just great_.

The lane was narrow and cobbled. Very few people were up the lane but there were little niche businesses crowded in multi-story renovated complexes with awnings and mobile billboards at street level. The lane was straight for only a few yards then veered sharply to the right. John couldn't see very far and cursed his luck.

"John to Penelope. He's gone up a back alley just past Jackson street. Does it come out? Can Parker go around? I'm not sure whether to go up or not. It doesn't look seedy but I'll look obvious. It may be a way back to the store. I'm dialling up the GPS now."

"Stay where you are. Parker will see what he can do."

Four minutes later, John received word Martin had not come out. According to his GPS read-out, this was not a short cut. Martin had come here for a specific purpose, perhaps the purpose they'd been seeking.

Decision time. A casual walk-past may not hurt. Martin could've gone into any one of the small businesses and John might get lucky.

"Okay. I'll go. See what's there. At least it's a through street."

"John. Be careful. Penelope out."

Oh, yeah. He'd be careful all right. He was an astronomer, not some trained spy. As much as Scott had drilled him in the finer points of warfare and defence, it was not who he was. Besides, he was not packing anything more deadly than a ball point pen, unless you count the damage hitting someone with a GPS unit might cause.

It was broad daylight. He had every right to be walking down this lane. There was little traffic. He did walk down the middle so as not to be surprised by anyone off to the side.

He had only walked as far as the bend in the lane when he saw someone standing in a doorway. It was Martin. He looked straight at John as he watched John walked past. John pretended not to notice and continued on.

"So I am being followed," Martin called across to him. "You're John."

John glanced his way but didn't stop.

"I know who you are. I saw you in the watch. I heard what the other one called you. Scott, isn't it?" Martin said. "You're International Rescue. I know. And you were at the shop. Last night. I saw you with a blond guy. Someone entered my shop illegally. I don't know why they did that. But I know who all of you are."

John answered him in fluent Swedish, something John thought might suit his almost Nordic blond and blue-eyes appearance and something that would mask his American accent. He suggested something to the effect that Martin should piss off and go do something he'd really, really regret. Then Martin did the thing John dreaded. He took a snapshot of him. With his phone.

_Where were the jammers when you needed them_?

John was boiling mad. What could he do? He could try to wrestle the thing from him but that would only confirm the man's words. He'd been outplayed and he'd never live it down.

_Damn. This sonofabitch is good_.

John gave him the finger and said a few more choice words in Swedish as he walked on. He was surprised when Martin ran past him. John braced for him to take more photos but he turned, instead, into what was a dead-end back lane. When John walked past the corner, the man had disappeared.

"And I am not going down there to look."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Scott was flying; high, higher, up beyond anything blue he could remember into a haze of greyish-white. It wasn't clouds but he gave its substance no mind as he was, at last, one with his precious Thunderbird. Nothing else mattered. So much in one with his machine, in fact, that he couldn't tell where his rocket-plane began and he ended or vice versa.

He was soaring effortlessly above the dark, the rain, the devastation…until his higher cortex got curious. Why didn't he register the g-forces riveting his spine against his especially-designed seat? Why couldn't he feel his guts restrained by the small of his back? He was soaring effortlessly until he heard the voice.

_I'm disappointed_…

He didn't need to hear much else. It was enough to send the systems in his Thunderbird into major malfunction. Thunderbird One went into free fall, nose down, spiralling straight back from where he'd come. He watched the planet Earth enlarge from a speck to a baseball to a basketball in terrifyingly rapid time.

_I'm disappointed_…

He was going to crash, head first until by some freakish warp he was suddenly not looking down but up as his Thunderbird came straight for him, red nose tip smouldering. Just as he opened his mouth to protest, the machine morphed into a hand, a girl's arm, and, as he watched, the palm enlarged and threatened to pulverise him into the ground like the boot on the foot of a giant.

"Mr Tracy?"

The sound of a strange voice near his ear had him mentally scurrying for cover, snapping back in on himself like over-wound elastic.

Which nurse was going to humiliate him, now?

Then there was more light in his room and the head-end of his bed rose. He began to count backwards, inaudibly, to focus. _Nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine, nine thousand nine hundred and —_

"I'm Deirdre," she said. "We'll being seeing a lot of each other in the coming days. I've been appointed to take care of you and I specialise in orthopaedics so we'll work to get your arm functioning again. I'll let you call me Dee if you're civil." She paused in her introductions as if to wait for a response but when he didn't give one, she went on. "Oh, dear. You haven't touched your meal. Your grandmother got it especially. They told me you don't say much but you'll find I'm extremely persistent. What I want I usually get and what I want for you is to get well."

Scott allowed his eyes to slide open a fraction to locate this fresh avenue of torment. He had to rely on the nurses to do most things for him. His dominant arm was useless and his left was limited by the IV trailing from it. He'd rarely felt so helpless and he didn't like it.

_Back to the real world, Tracy, and a whole new ball game._

He saw a compact female, about his age. He had to listen carefully to understand what she was saying as her accent was a mix of Australian and something else. She was the type of woman he may not give a second glance with her sparrow brown hair pulled back severely with pins but there was one thing he had learned from his years with International Rescue and even longer years raising four brothers and that was to distrust first appearances. Something in the way her unplucked eyebrows knit and her mouth disappeared into a grim line as she concentrated on her task warned him to take notice.

"Do I have your attention? This might interest you more." She undid the bandages, giving him a running commentary despite the fact he refused to look at it. "This apparatus looks bizarre but it's just to hold everything in place. More nerve grafts will be done later but I'm sure Dr Rossiter will explain it to you. Now, this other swelling and bruising around the sutures looks worse than it is. Quite normal. How about some simple exercises?"

That was a statement, not a question. She moved his fingers and he endured the pain in silence. He could see she was watching him. He discovered he could move his hand to some small degree, though sensation in it was tingling and poor.

"You know, pain is a good thing," she reassured him. "Have you ever seen leprosy, Mr Tracy?"

He knew what she was suggesting. They often received calls to underdeveloped countries. Millions of people around concrete construction with poor emergency services. They often filled in the gaps. He'd seen the devastating effects a lack of physical sensation produced.

"Will you see your family this afternoon? Your dad would like to know?"

His father? He's disappointed. Scott was disappointed in himself, too. Bitterly. But he knew only one way to survive. Containment. First rule of self-preservation. In this instance, the nurse was wrong; numbness would be his saviour, not his slayer.

He shook his head slowly.

"Shame. I understand your brother, Virgil, is worried about you." She indicated with her head to the door between the rooms. "He's been moved next door."

Scott frowned at her.

"Eye contact," she said. "That's an improvement."

"Virgil's next door? Why is he still here?"

"You'll have to ask him. You're going to be very, very sore, especially around your rib cage. You'll need to take care when you move."

"Virgil should be taken home. It's not safe. Tell my dad."

"You're in a secure unit. You don't need to worry about security. Why don't you tell him yourself?"

"Virgil must not stay here."

"You may be used to ordering a secretary about, Mr Tracy, but that won't happen here. No such luxuries. Now. I'll make a deal with you. You eat something and I'll find out about your brother. Okay?"

Scott closed his eyes. He knew what would happen if he did eat.

She held the bowl of rice and vegetables in front of him. "How long has it been since you've eaten?"

That was the wrong question to ask. It brought back involuntary images of the hellish week he'd had. He hadn't sat down to a Tracy meal for more than a week, surviving on specially-made energy bars and coffee, but there was only so much legal stimulants could do to keep an exhausted body on its feet.

His week had begun in a far-off Malaysia where a flood had wiped out a town. It was apparent early on this was recovery not rescue and only Thunderbird One had been launched. He'd stayed to organise the five days of clean-up and disposal of the dead as local resources were limited.

He'd gone straight from there to join his three brothers at a train wreck in a tunnel. He'd maintained radio contact with the victims trying to encourage them while his brothers tore through the mountainside in the Mole. It was to no avail. The victims succumbed to their injuries while Scott listened.

That last rescue had been a turning point. It was not their usual protocol to handle the dead but Scott felt more than obligated. Gordon was devastated to let go of the young boy's hand and betray the survivors' hope like that. There was no way to know whether they would've survived if he'd let Gordon secure that jack. Scott sincerely doubted it but it didn't make the decision any easier. He'd made a clear choice – the life of his brother for those five lives and in some convoluted sense it felt wrong of him to keep what was precious to him while the others were lost, yet he knew he wouldn't be able to choose differently.

As Scott did what he considered his duty, he was left with the realisation that he couldn't take much more of it without a break. The smell was the worst in any of these situations, particularly of those long dead. Of bloating, bursting corpses. It seemed to be absorbed into his mouth and into his nose. Everything tasted and smelt of earth and decay – and death.

Then the car accident. To damage an innocent bystander. To hurt one of his own brothers. He saw that hand. The girl's palm, tiny and pale, imprinted on the dark, rain-scarred glass of the windscreen.

He stared at the food bowl and began to retch.

At least that move got the food out of his sight. Deirdre dashed it aside as she rushed to help him. It was good he hadn't eaten. There was little to bring up but Scott heaved and heaved in an effort to get rid of that smell, to get rid of that horrible sensation of drowning in lives they couldn't save.

"Sorry."

"That's okay." She held a towel in front of his face. He trembled from the exertion and pain as she wiped the sweat from his face. "Are you drug or alcohol dependent, Mr Tracy? We need to know if you are. You may be going into withdrawal."

He gritted his teeth. "No."

"There was alcohol in your system when you were admitted. It's not an accusation."

"No." Scott pressed his face into the pillow to stifle the sound of his distress. "They can't see me like this. They can't."

* * *

"Brains!" Alan yelled. "Will you look at this?"

Brains came over to Alan's computer on the dining room table back at Tracy Corp.

Alan punched a button on his com-watch. "Alan to John. Where the hell are you?"

John answered immediately, sounding breathless, though he sounded so strange Alan didn't catch what he said.

"You won't believe what happened," Alan said as he heard the slam of the penthouse door behind him.

John jogged into the room and sprawled onto the back of a chair as he caught his breath. "My picture's on the internet. Right?"

"Ye-up."

John covered his face with his hands and moaned.

"I can see –uh- why Microtech had this individual –uh- in their employ," Brains said. "He is very good."

"We're not here to appreciate his handiwork," Alan said. "We have to find a way to stop him."

"Oh, I doubt you'll do –uh- that."

"You're not admitting defeat, are you?"

"Oh, no Alan. It's a –uh- question of how far do we go. I could disable his –uh- operating system but he would only have –uh- to start up again with a different one. He's not –uh- actually attacking our attempts to block him. He could –uh- attempt to destroy us in return but I haven't seen –uh- any hint of that. No direct threat has been made –uh- against us."

As they the watched the website display for a minute, more pictures of the family appeared.

"There's me. When I won Parola Sands. And Gordo when he won his gold medal. Now, he's cheating. Virgil when he was at college? That's ancient. No-one will recognise that! Look. He says he's got proof we're members of International Rescue."

"And Tracy Corporation will release a statement refuting it, tomorrow." Their father's deep gravelly voice behind them startled them. "Brains is right. It's a question of how far we go. We're being provoked. They accuse us and if we take it up we make their accusation come true."

"But he's accusing Tracy Corporation of heavy-handed tactics. Of him being followed and harassed, his premises being watched."

"Well, aren't we?" John drawled from the corner of his mouth.

"We've got the com-watch back without harm. That's what matters," Jeff said. "Any more information about this fellow's background? We must know who he is."

John picked up a sheet of paper to his left. "Martin James Langley. Born in England. Son of a Tory politician, when Great Britain had such a party. Mother died when he was young and he lived with his aunt. Fairly conservative background. Formal education in Europe before taking up a high-flying role with computer hardware giant Microtech, Seattle. Left there under a cloud, disagreeing with their company politics apparently. A crisis of conscience, so says his website. Then formed this green group. That's it, so far."

"So, what do we do with this joker?" Alan said.

"We wait for him to make a direct threat," his father said.

"You think he will?"

"I'll bet International Rescue on it."

* * *

"See that, Gordon?" Hubert enthused, tears immediately in his eyes. "She moved. She moved. Her fingers. You try."

Gordon had just returned to the ICU to give Amber's father a break from the bedside vigil. He'd been in and out of ICU all day and the thought that Amber might be rousing sent a little thrill through him. He sat down in the chair Hubert vacated and took hold of the tiny, white fingers.

"Hey, Amber," Gordon said to the apparition in the bed in front of him. In ICU, the machines and life-support systems made any human appear less than lifelike. "I'm Gordon. I'm your new friend, remember, do I get a squeeze, too?"

They both watched anxiously for a response. Gordon wasn't sure he did feel pressure on his hand other than the reflexive response of the unconscious but the joy on Hubert's face was too much to disappoint.

"You know, maybe I did feel something, Mr Kreuzer."

Hubert patted him firmly on the shoulder, which Gordon regretted but smiled through it. He spoke to his daughter then hurried outside for a short break. Gordon sat staring at the figure in the bed. This beautiful young woman would not be the same. Long, dark hair, translucent skin. A fragile, perfect creation broken in more places than he could recite, and he held the hand that he saw in his night hours.

_Poor Scott if he ever sees her._

They say that people in a coma have some awareness. He couldn't remember a great deal directly after his own accident. Weeks of his life were a blank but the knowledge that his family had never given up on him was something he treasured. He wouldn't give up on Amber, either. He talked softly to her until her father returned when Gordon had to make his apologies.

Hubert leapt at him, embracing him. "How can I thank. For saving her. For coming. You save me, too."

"Would it be okay if I came back tomorrow?"

The man cried into Gordon's shoulder as he nodded. "Any day. Every day."

Gordon trudged from ICU and went to look for his brothers. Even the short distance up a couple of storeys was a harrowing one. Everyone was talking about International Rescue. Where were they? Why had they abandoned the world? Why had they vanished without word? The paper's headline asked the question on everyone's lips:

WHERE'S INTERNATIONAL RESCUE?

* * *

It took Virgil less than ninety seconds to undo the lock between his room and Scott's. He paused a moment to thank Parker for his dexterity with these devices and his willingness to pass on his dubious skills.

Virgil shuffled in, wrapping a gown around his silk pyjamas, acutely tender around the midriff. The light was turned down and Scott was on his side, actually asleep. Virgil saw the strategically placed towels and dish.

"Oh, Scotty. Not again."

He listened to his brother's rhythmic breathing. It was the first time he'd seen Scott relaxed in a long time. He shifted a chair to sit near him and sat down to watch.

Scott roused slightly. "Mom?"

"I wish, I wish."

"Virg?"

"Here, buddy. Go back to sleep." Virgil took up his hand. Scott tried to pull away as he struggled to open his eyes and look around in sudden anxiety but Virgil held on.

"News?"

"Relax, relax. Everything's headed in the right direction. Don't worry."

"You need to…go."

"Not going anyplace. Go back to sleep, I'll watch over you."

"But—"

"Sleep."

Scott closed his eyes and did go back to sleep. Virgil watched over him, almost nodding off with him. The door opening, however, woke him. The nurse came in then stopped short when she saw him and glanced at the door to the adjoining rooms.

"The lock's broken," he whispered to alleviate her worried look.

"What do you know, sleeping at last," she whispered back as she looked down at her patient.

"What did you do? Down him with a piece of four by two?"

"Just about had to call the vet in here. I think we used enough to knock out a horse."

Virgil grinned. "Well, he can be as stubborn as their closest relative."

"He's almost smiling."

"He can do that quite well."

"He only glares at me."

"He hates this." Virgil motioned around him.

"Does this regularly, does he?"

"No – more than the rest of us," Virgil said self-consciously moving his hand away from Scott's when he saw her looking.

"You seem – um – close," Deirdre said. "Does he have any problems we should know about? Don't take offence but high profile people often have substance abuse issues. He's showing the classic signs."

"I see he's throwing up again."

"That's right. Severely. He's also shivery and agitated. Does this happen often?"

"Only when things get too much for him. It means he's reached his limit. It doesn't mean he's drug dependent. It means he works too hard."

"What exactly do you do, if you don't mind me asking? I guess you work for Tracy Corporation."

"We're in research and development. We're pilots. We test and operate new equipment."

"Well, you both don't look like you have desk jobs."

Virgil grinned. "We work outdoors a lot."

"What are you working on that's causing your brother so much grief?"

"You don't think seriously injuring a pedestrian is stress enough?" Virgil said trying to avoid the question.

"Why do I get the impression this was an accident waiting to happen?"

Virgil couldn't look at her. "Sorry, I can't talk about what we do exactly or what we work on. Industry secrets."

"I suppose one multi-national is just like any other with their secrets," she said and sighed. "Look, if there's anything that might help him, let's know, okay?"

"The biggest way to help is to not make judgements about what you see and decisions about what he doesn't say."

Deirdre looked askance at him. "That's very cryptic, Mr Tracy."

* * *

By the time Gordon passed through security and reached Virgil's room, he was ready to hit the sack. He'd had an intense day in ICU and he was glad to visit his brother. He carried with him that deep-seated ache painkillers couldn't reach. He'd spent the day remembering…remembering what it was like to be so helpless, so broken; watching as death teetered above as tangibly as the slab of concrete that had wrenched life from his fingers and as unpredictably as the whim of a kidnapper's next blow.

He remembered it all. And, moreover, he understood – not in a textbook knowledge of understanding – but knowing from those depths of personal experience. During intense times like these, he could often fall back on his humour to survive, his 'bag of tricks' as his brothers called them. He saw this tendency as something he practiced, more along the lines of a physician – jokes to revive a spirit, a shot of laughter to boost morale. Only right now, he seemed to have misplaced the whole damn kit.

He knocked on his brother's door and went in. "Virg?"

The bed was unoccupied, though he saw that the adjoining door to Scott's room was open. It was quiet in Scott's room except for Virgil whispering to a woman, who he presumed was a nurse. He curled up on Virgil's bed, intending only to take a nap.

He woke sometime later to find someone touching his sore shoulder. Gordon sat up, his eyes wide with guilt. "I'm Gordon. I was waiting for Virgil to come back. I'm his younger brother," he explained in a rush.

"Oh, you're Gordon," she said. "I'm Deirdre. I've heard you're a walking wonder. Apparently your scans are impressive. The emergency nurses were talking about it, how you survived such a horrific accident."

"Yes, ma'am," Gordon agreed as he felt a tinge of heat creep into his cheeks. "Thank you, ma'am."

She laughed softly. "What do you do? Are you a pilot, too?"

"No. Well, yes, I am but I'm an aquanaut first. I'm a diver and oceanographer. I love the water. I work in research and development."

"Oh, so you work with your brothers. You know something. I love the water. You can call me Dee."

"Thank you, ma'am."

The main door to Virgil's room came inward.

"Don't take that cute, bashful teddy bear look too seriously, Miss," John said as he strode into the room, both hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. "He's a real shark underneath."

John stopped to call for Alan out the door and Alan came in panting.

"Gordo. We looked all over. Dad's doing a piston with worry."

John nodded to the lock on the door that adjoined the rooms. "Mission accomplished."

"Virgil said the lock was broken," Deirdre said.

John grinned. "Certainly is now."

"So, I'm talking to more brothers?"

"We, unfortunately, do share the same surname," John quipped. "Where the resemblance stops is pure conjecture."

"How many of you are there?"

"Grandma says we must be an innumerable horde by the looks of the table after we've eaten," Alan said.

"I could believe it. I've got three brothers. So, you work for Tracy Corp? Don't tell me. Let me guess. Research and development. Right? So, is it sky or sea? Pilots or aquanauts?"

"What do you think? Is this gal quick or what?" John said to Alan using one of his voice impersonations.

"For us. Neither," Alan said. "We do those but we're the out-of-this-world type of guys. We reach far beyond where no man – or woman – has ever gone before."

John nudged him. "I'm an astronomer and this here kid is a race driver who thinks he can shoot for the stars. An ego thing, I think."

Deirdre laughed. "Oh, you blokes are too much."

"That's what Dad says – though not as nicely as that," Alan said.

"Gordon!" John barked. "Before you go back bye-byes. Any news?"

Gordon startled awake at his name being called.

"How's Amber?" John said.

"Yes, how is she?" Deirdre asked.

Gordon shifted his focus to the nurse. "You know her?"

"Actually, I'm not sure. I've heard her name somewhere before. I think she lives in the airport precinct. I do, too. We may have met. I've been trying to place her."

"You don't live in that trendy up-market green redevelopment, do you?" John said a trifle sharply. "You're not one of those radicals? From what we've seen the place is alive with alternates big on biofuels and recycling or some such."

"About the only radical thing I do is volunteer for World Aid Services every summer. Medical work in India and Africa. Not too radical for you, is it? What's Tracy Corporation doing in that area? Now, that's hardly radical. A huge multinational conglomerate into new fuel technologies and billion-dollar government contracts could hardly fit the radical mould, could it?"

"We do actually have our moments," John said.

Deirdre squared up to John. "Like when? Give me an example."

"Believe me, we know how to get our hands dirty," John bit back. "We contribute."

"Er – Deirdre? Ma'am? How's Scott?" Gordon asked, cutting straight across what he could see was going to be a serious clash.

The nurse turned back to Gordon. "Thanks for reminding me. I came to get a spare blanket. He hasn't been well. He's asleep now but his temperature's way up. It's probably his arm."

"Can we see him?" Alan said.

"If you could wait until tomorrow, that would be better. I need to get Virgil out of there. He's been up too long. I think Mr Tracy should be left asleep."

"Okay, Miss World Aid. Tomorrow," John snapped.

"It's Ms Stewart to you."

* * *

"John?" Alan said. "What are you doing?"

Later in the Tracy penthouse, John tapped faster on his keyboard. "I don't like that Stewart woman. I'm doing a search."

"No kidding. What was that about? You changed all of a sudden."

John stopped work and leaned on his hand. "I don't know. Something about the way she—"

"Moves?"

"I was going to say speaks. I am the language expert, after all. And if you make one wise crack about me hearing voices, I'll deck you."

Alan held up both hands in surrender.

Gordon stormed into the dining room flapping a piece of paper. "John?"

John sighed. "Sometimes I hate that name."

"What is this?" Gordon slapped the paper right across his keyboard. "It's from Ned Cook. Someone used his identity and he just got burned for accessing an unauthorised area. He's pissed off big time. Did you?"

"Guilty, your Honour."

"But Ned and I have an agreement. He trusted me with that information. He does favours for IR."

"So sue me. Sorry but I'm only following orders."

Gordon turned to his father, aghast.

"John's doing what he was asked to do, son."

"But that's not right."

"Steady Gordon, you'll blow something," Alan said to one side.

"I'll talk to Cook about it," Jeff said. "Apologise. Cook didn't respond to John's attempts to contact him. John's registered his protest to me. There's no time, Gordon. This could mean the life of your brother, not to mention International Rescue."

"It's still not _right_," Gordon repeated, looked like he waited for a show of support from the others but, when none was forthcoming, he stalked out.

"Gordon. Get back here," his father bellowed. "We're about to have a meeting. Come together, everyone, we've got things to discuss. Alan, get your brother."

Alan groaned. "He won't come, now." He trotted to the bedroom and came back alone. "He's gone to bed."

"Well. That might be a good thing," Jeff said. "Fill him in tomorrow. Brains, make sure Gordon does sleep. Then we can all get some rest. We're feeling the strain."

"Yes, Mr Tracy."

"Okay. No further threats from the People's group. Our agents on the ground are monitoring the situation there and all appears quiet. John's little escapade may have cost us but not too much. Tracy Corporation will continue to deny any connection with International Rescue. As you noticed, there have been reporters round the building today. Stay clear. As of now, you boys are to stay off the streets. Penelope is monitoring the media coverage for us so we don't have to watch the International Rescue debacle ourselves.

"I don't like the Thunderbirds away from base. It's time we took care of that loose end. A group of us will go back to base tomorrow and clear the runway. There was a heck of a lot of debris. We concentrate on those areas we need to clear to get those birds down. Alan will come with me in Thunderbird One. Brains and Tin-Tin in Tracy Jet Three. If we get an early start we could be back by dark.

"John, I want you at the hospital. Check everyone who comes near Virgil and Scott. Gordon will continue with Amber and Hubert, though I want him to check in on the boys. Tell him. We'll be as quick as we can. That's our day tomorrow. Get some sleep, even if you have to see Brains. Right. Any questions?"

There were none.

"Dismissed. Long day ahead of us, tomorrow."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"Virg. How long…have I been out of it?" Scott croaked as he squinted past his brother's shoulder to the scene beyond the hospital window outside. He could tell by the angle of the light that it was getting towards the later afternoon. Virgil was surrounded by a halo of light. The shadow made his silk bathrobe deeper in green and almost obliterated the fancy 'V' sewn into his pocket.

"Twelve hours. A Scott Tracy record."

Scott struggled to roll onto his back. "Everything still okay?" he asked cautiously, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"All good."

Scott allowed himself to relax. "I feel lousy." He mouthed. "What – is that stuff? My mouth feels—"

"Anticipated." Virgil held out a glass of water. "Sip it. Slowly." At Scott's wary look, Virgil held out a dish as well. "If you're going to barf, I don't want it over me."

Scott sipped the water slowly and it took five minutes not feel like it was going to come straight back up. The brothers grinned. Scott winced as he pushed himself up with his left hand and was surprised by the effort it took. He glanced around the room, silently congratulating himself he was at least sitting up. _Vertical. Progress_. He asked about Amber and what was happening on the home front.

"Dad's doing everything he can, believe me. They've gone to clear the runway at home so One and Two can be taken home"

"How's IR holding? Was there any picture of me?"

"We're concentrating on keeping you out of trouble. That's our number one priority."

"The com-watch. Any luck tracking it?"

"It's being taken care of, don't worry. Leave it to Father. Dad doesn't want you to think about any of this. Okay? You rest and get yourself right. Everything's headed in the right direction. Amber's off critical and the watch is being taken care of. There's reason to be optimistic. Things'll work out, you'll see."

Scott shot him an angry look. "Work out?"

"Leave it, Scott. Leave it to Father and the authorities."

"I'm dead meat as far as they're concerned. And for all the wrong reasons."

"Trust Dad to take care of things. You concentrate on mending up."

Scott kicked back the bedding and shuffled along the bed. "Swap places. I have to get off this bed."

"Actually, I could do with a nap now you're awake. I'll go back." Virgil eased out of the chair and stood up gingerly.

"Okay?" Scott asked worriedly.

"Yeah. Yeah. Have to be careful. Don't want to rupture it again. Definitely don't recommend it." Virgil shuffled to the connecting door. "Open or shut?"

"I love to hear you snore, bro."

Virgil closed it forcefully and Scott smirked until he tried to get from the bed to the chair, which were only two feet from each other. He felt heavier than a Boeing Jumbo and he had to make a grab for the arm to stop himself from going straight to the floor.

He was getting weak. He had to find a way to eat. He'd barely made the chair and arranged the hospital gown so he was modest, when Deirdre breezed in.

"Look at you. Out of bed." She checked his IV line and his temperature then arranged his right hand on a pillow in his lap. "You need to give your arm proper support."

Scott still refused to look at it. As soon as she turned her back, he slipped his arm under the pillow so it was covered. She noticed but offered him water without comment.

"It's good you're awake. You have visitors." Scott tensed. "You can't refuse these people. It's the police."

He suddenly wished he hadn't drunk the water. _Chill, Tracy. Act cool. Contained_. He began counting again. _Nine thousand nine hundred…where did I get to?_

Two officers came in. One in uniform, one in a suit. The one in uniform was from the accident scene and Scott nodded to him. The second was introduced as a detective. The detective stood in front of him with his feet spread, a clipboard open in front of him.

Scott started to feel hemmed in. "How can I help?" he asked, trying to get off on the right foot.

"We're simply pursuing our enquiries, Mr Tracy," the detective said. "Would you like to tell me your version of events leading up to the accident?"

_His version? Why did that sound accusatory? _

"Not much to say" was how he started the interview and virtually how he finished it. It became apparent very quickly that he could answer only the most basic questions without jeopardising International Rescue's status. Where was he going? Why was he going there? What could he say? He couldn't defend himself without lying. Personal integrity was something he valued and to deliberately give misleading information in these circumstances didn't sit easily with him. Certainly not to protect himself.

The interview ended with an outcome none of them wanted and the experience left Scott feeling wound-up and frustrated.

"Look. I don't mean to be difficult about it but I'm sorry I just can't say anything," he finally blurted.

"Really," the detective said rather sceptically from the corner of his mouth. "Do you want to say anything at all that might be helpful?"

Scott felt prickly heat crawl around inside his abdomen. "I might want to only I can't. All I can do is register my sorrow and regret at what's happened. I'm not able to comment on anything else. I'm sorry but I just can't."

The detective closed his book slowly. "Then I think you'd better engage a very good solicitor, sir. No doubt your daddy can afford one. Unfortunately for you, we're going to enjoy throwing the book at you."

* * *

"Amber. Amber." Gordon leaned across to stroke the top of her head. "It's me, Gordon. We really want you to open your eyes. Could you do that for us?"

In the afternoon, Amber had shown definite signs of waking. Her eyes moved under their lids. Her fingers twitched. She responded to stimuli administered by the nursing staff and best of all, when Gordon squeezed her hand and spoke to her, he felt a corresponding pressure on his fingers in return.

Hubert must have heard the excitement in Gordon's voice. He hurried over to Amber's opposite side.

"Amby. _Mein Engel__!_ We're here. Come back, my beautiful."

* * *

The hand that had smoothed the uniform, that had saluted the photograph, that had chosen with care the appropriate weapon, shielded the angry eyes from the sun as they stared up at the Tracy Corporation logo in urban Sydney. The logo of the giant 'T' surrounded by bursts of flame, which could have been the after-burn of a multitude of jets, looked even more orange as the westerly sun touched it with fire and its glare seared the image into the heart of the observer.

* * *

Scott observed that same fire on the wing tips of a Super Hornet fighter as it took off from the airport. Now he was off the IV he could allow himself to think beyond the hospital walls. He watched the jet soar, and his spirits lifted only to bottom out just as quickly when he remembered what awaited him. Even so, his fingers reached out to trace that spot on the glass where his passion culminated.

"Glorious, isn't it?" a male voice said from across the room.

Scott startled and immediately drew back his hand as if caught in an unguarded moment.

"Sorry to frighten you. You were absorbed. You obviously didn't hear me come in."

Scott's gaze scanned the newcomer and the rest of the room to make sure nothing else had changed while he'd been preoccupied. This time he couldn't even remember the numbers.

"What do you want?" he said moodily. He had mulled over the interview with the police for an hour, trying to figure out how he could have handled it better and now any semblance of order in his mind had evaporated.

"You flew them in the Air Force, didn't you? Fighter jets?"

Scott regarded him with suspicion. He wasn't going to give out any information unless he was sure who he was talking to. He could see the visitor wore a hospital lanyard, though he was casually dressed.

"I'm Nelson. From the mental health unit. Mind if I sit down?" Scott could see he was a doctor and that meant psychiatrist to him. Scott braced, his good fingers clutching the pillow in his lap with more force. Nelson grabbed the back of a chair off to the side and swung it around to face him. "So, how are you going, Scott? Is it all right to call you Scott?"

For the next ten minutes, Nelson made small talk and his patient answered in stony, mechanical one-word sentences then he got down to the purpose of his visit.

"As part of the care plan the hospital has in place for you, I've been asked to conduct a check on your psychological wellbeing, just to make sure everything's okay with you."

"Does my father know about this?"

Except in the most extreme cases, the Tracys preferred to treat themselves. Virgil was his listening ear, his safety relief valve. To see anyone outside the family only made the procedure a psychological nightmare for the participant. They just couldn't let their guard down. How could they explain the types of fears and pressures they lived with without revealing who they really were?

The last time it had been necessary had been after Gordon had been kidnapped and subjected to unspeakable horrors. They'd all been terrified and sickened by what had happened. It was the reality that no matter how many good things they did, someone would want to hurt them – in the worst possible way – for what they possessed that changed a lot of things. After this incident, it was difficult not to look on a stranger without feeling some kind of threat.

"He's been consulted and given his in-principle support," Nelson said, in answer to Scott's question. Scott was bewildered and showed it. "But I need your consent. The hospital is doing this in your interest. The police have agreed to hold off charging you until we make a full assessment of your health needs."

"I'm okay. I don't have any problems." _Or if I did I couldn't talk about them_.

"I'm glad to hear it. Let's just talk about you, then. Get to know you a little better."

Scott gave him the standard basics. He was test pilot with Tracy Corp who lived on a tropical island with his large, extended family. He thought that sounded pretty normal.

"You live and work for your father. And you live and work with your brothers. You know I don't know anyone else who does that. How do you find it?"

Scott nodded. "Okay." _A mine field._

"So, you all get along?"

"Yes." _Generally._

"Do you ever disagree?"

"Sometimes." _Frequently_.

Nelson asked about each of the members of his family and general information about his background and education. Then he changed tack.

"Do you have a partner or current relationship outside the family circle?"

Scott shook his head. _It's discouraged. But, then, who could we trust? _Gordon's recent nightmare had shaken them all.

"Would you like to?"

"Sure." _I can't see how I could do it_. _How could I go or send one of my brothers into impossibly dangerous territory when a life partner or children waited at home for our safe return? _

"How long has it been since you had an on-going relationship?"

Scott shifted uncomfortably. "A couple of years."

"What might stop you, you think? You appear to have a lot going for you. You're accomplished, intelligent, good-looking."

The compliment was unexpected. And the sudden memory of his last relationship before commencing the rescue service waylaid his thinking for a moment. Perhaps the woman had done him a favour, after all. Perhaps she'd made it easier for him to accept his isolation. Certainly, at the mere mention of her name his nether regions would contract. More effective than any cold shower. He had almost welcomed the island as a sanctuary from her efforts to capture little more than the Tracy name and what came with it. Dare he admit, a safe house? Certainly not to any of his brothers. He had a reputation to maintain.

What he said was – well aware of the almost schizoid conversation he was having with Nelson and with himself – "Too busy, I guess. Look. I pick up sex when I can. I do have needs if that's what you want me to say."

"If you believe the tabloids, no-one would doubt it. What's it like to work for Tracy Corporation?"

"Hard. People seem to think because we're wealthy we sit around and do nothing. We carry a lot of responsibility. I carry a lot of responsibility."

"Your medical record testifies to some pretty hard living. Tell me about being a pilot? I saw the expression on your face, just now."

"Oh yeah." Scott looked out the window, remembering the thrust of his precious Thunderbird One against his back. He grinned. "The best there is. I live for it. It's my life." _And I couldn't even begin to consider life without it. There are times when I wish I was a poet like John. Just to find the words._

Nelson looked at his injured arm. "The future must seem pretty scary for you at the moment."

Scott stared at the pillow that was hiding it. He didn't answer. _So terrified, I can't even allow myself to think about it._

"Do you want to talk about what's happened? How your arm came to be like that?"

"No."

Nelson nodded in acceptance. "Tell me about the responsibility, then. What's your most important one?"

"To get the job done with minimal risk. That means to look after my brothers. To protect them. That's my priority." _Number ONE_. _Since mom died. We couldn't bear to lose another family member._

"They're grown men. Can't they look after themselves?"

"What we do is dangerous. I'm the team leader. My responsibility is first to those under my command."

"Your command, Scott?"

"I can't go into details of our structures, operations or actual projects. They're highly classified. All I can say about what I do is that I'm the boss in the field. They do as I say and I bear full responsibility for them."

"And if they don't. What do you do?"

"Well…what works." Scott hesitated, checking for any traps in the question he might stumble into, and relaxed when his visitor didn't pursue it.

"What do you do to unwind? What do you like to do? Hobbies?"

"I work. I fly. Sport. That's it." _I don't unwind. I can't afford to. There's too much I need to hold together._

"I admire your commitment, Scott. You work and sacrifice yourself for your family. You give everything. How does that make you feel?"

Scott frowned, not sure what to answer. He didn't really think about it. He'd done it for so long, he accepted it as part of his duty, as his lot in the world. Even after being away in the Air Force, he naturally took up the role again for International Rescue. After all, being at home wasn't much different from being in the armed services.

"Do you resent all these impossible responsibilities?"

Scott's head came up. "They're not impossible."

He heard the sound of his own voice. It was deep and angry.

He was being peeled like an onion. He could feel it. The man was paring off a layer at a time. Rubbing the sore places. He had to stop this. He had to get out of there. He had to fix this mess so everything was right again. Father would be smiling. His brothers would be safe. Amber would be back in her own bed and the world would go on normally again.

Scott fidgeted.

"So, how do you cope? Must be difficult to control a world that has a mind of its own. Must take a lot of effort. So many responsibilities. So many secrets. Secrets are heavy burdens, aren't they?"

He didn't agree or disagree. He stared at the pillow in his lap while the fingers of his left hand assaulted its edge.

"What do you do when you're not in control? Must be hell in here. Tell me about being in here."

Scott's eyes darted about him. He couldn't think anymore. He couldn't allow himself to think. Thinking leads to feeling. He needed numbness. Containment. He must have containment.

"You okay, Scott? You look distressed."

"I'm fine," he snarled, before he could stop himself.

"Tell me about the accident."

Scott shook his head. "I can't."

"Then tell me about your father. From what I've read, he sounds an amazing man."

"He's…" _Disappointed_. Words immediately failed him, choked off by a suffocating surge of physical reaction. Scott pressed his good hand to his forehead.

"Your father's a famous astronaut, a self-made billionaire. Must be hard to live up to his record. Pressure to conform, to succeed – just like your good old dad. He must be a charismatic fellow to have all his sons still at home, all single, all working for him, totally under his control."

There was silence. Scott was aware he was being scrutinised, watched for every little reaction. Seconds passed. The sound of his rapid breathing and thudding heart seemed magnified in the room.

"But you like to be in control, too. Don't you? How do you get along? Did he ever beat you, Scott? To get you to do what he wants?"

The suggestion shocked him and he raised his gaze to look the psychiatrist squarely in the eye. "My father never hit anyone."

"You're angry. Full-blown anger. I can hear it. Where's this coming from? This is not quite the reaction I'd expect from someone's who's just been involved in a major accident. Maybe you blame the young woman for getting in your way? Causing all this trouble for you?"

A glimpse of Amber's hand striking the windscreen stuck in his throat but Scott swallowed it. "Definitely not."

"Did your father beat your mother?"

"Never."

"Did you ever hit your mother?"

"That's unthinkable."

"Perhaps he did even worse than that? Perhaps he—"

Scott was on his feet, his fist clenched. "If you so much as…so help me—"

"Is this what you do when you can't control things? Hit out? Strike out at a threat?"

Scott advanced on him. "Get out."

The man didn't move. "Sit down, Scott. This is obviously painful for you. Tell me how it is for you."

"You're talking absolute bullshit. I will not listen to any of this shit. My family is the best—"

"You're upset. I can hear it. I want to listen to your side of the story. Your privacy is respected. Sit down and we'll talk."

Scott didn't sit down. He took another step forward and grabbed Nelson by the front of his shirt. "Get out."

"Sit down. Please. You'll regret it if you touch me." There was a momentary clash of wills before Scott saw him press a button on his belt pager.

"Get out!"

"Scott. Tell me exactly what you're thinking."

"I do not have a problem. You hear me? You've got it wrong. There is nothing wrong with me. Or my family. Nothing. We're decent, hard-working people. Now, get out before I…" Scott started to shake violently and he looked up to see people rush into the room at him. "Virgil! _Virgil_!"

* * *

Virgil was already on his way. He could hear what the lunatic was saying and he could hear the tone of Scott's reaction. Scott was furious and Virgil didn't blame him.

He was off the bed and into his brother's room just as the nurse Deirdre and a security guard rushed into Scott's room. Trembling with rage, Scott loomed large over the psychiatrist's chair, his left hand drawing the edges of the man's shirt tighter around his fingers that was, in effect, tightening around the man's throat.

"Scott. Let him go!" Virgil shouted.

At Virgil's shout of alarm, the psychiatrist held up his hand to keep them at bay, his eyes never leaving the cobalt blue ones of the man who was holding his future literally in his hand.

"You have a decision to make," Nelson said evenly to Scott. "If you hurt me, you will be charged. No question. Your future will be sealed. But…if you stop now, if you pull back and let me go, the future will be in your hands. I believe you're still capable of making that decision. Pull back, Scott."

There was a momentary silence in the room. Virgil held his breath. The nurse and the guard, with baton drawn, stood on their toes ready to intervene.

Scott slowly unwound his fingers from the fabric. Then stepped back.

Everyone breathed.

"Thank you," Nelson said. "Well done. A wise decision."

Virgil was the first to move. He scampered around Nelson's chair and grabbed Scott by the shoulders. Scott retreated, turning his back on them, his hand outstretched to keep his face from impacting the wall.

Virgil watched as Scott's fingers alternately made a fist then uncurled.

"Let it go," Virgil whispered.

"N-o."

The catch in his brother's voice prompted Virgil to shift into protective mode. He knew Scott wouldn't want anyone to see him in an emotional state. He slung an arm across Scott's back, tentatively as he wasn't sure where his brother hurt, hoping the gesture would somehow signify a barrier between them and the outside world.

"Get out of here. Give us space," Virgil snapped at those looking on, making sure the snarl in his voice was matched by his expression. "This is not a side show."

"Nurse. Guard. Please leave," Nelson said. "Leave him some dignity. Progress, I think."

The various displays of outrage around him cooled and disappeared completely when they left.

"This is an improvement?" Virgil exclaimed.

"Mmm. He's shown an appropriate response." Nelson stood up from the chair and pulled his shirt back into place.

"You deliberately did this?"

The psychiatrist arched an eyebrow. "Creating – a certain amount of tension – is a risk, I admit, but worth it. At least he's expressing himself. Connecting. Good work, Scott. We'll be seeing you."

Nelson left, leaving the pair welded against the wall. Virgil soothed his brother's hair, tousling black waves in his fingers, and petted and reassured him.

"I have to fix this," Scott muttered.

"Right now, that's what we're for, that's what we're going to do."

Scott rubbed his face, leaving a wet smear across his upper arm. Virgil knew Scott would hold the world, the universe, on those broad shoulders of his if they'd fit.

When would he learn they just weren't broad enough? How much evidence did he need?

"For mercy's sake, get it over with. I won't look. I promise," Virgil scolded affectionately and rubbed his brother's shoulders. All Scott did was shake his head. Resolutely. Very resolutely. "Let go. Please." Virgil held little hope his words would be heeded. At least he had to try.

A minute later, Virgil was taken by surprise when Scott took him more literally than he intended. Scott's hand slid down the wall. So did the rest of him, making Scott lean too heavily into him and Virgil felt the strain in his abdomen.

"Can't hold you, buddy. Stand on your own."

"Need to…sit down," Scott said, his head dipping ominously.

"The bed. Get back to bed."

"Too far," he managed to say before his knees buckled.

Virgil did his best to cushion Scott's fall but he could only do so much without risking ending up where he'd been a few days earlier. He'd experienced pain; he wasn't a stranger to it. This, however, had been of a different dimension and he wasn't about to order a replay.

Scott didn't faint. Tracys just didn't faint. His knees gave out and he slid down the wall to the floor, his fingers clawing a vertical trail along the plaster as he went. Virgil observed wryly that even in defeat, Scott didn't go willingly and he knelt beside him, anxiously, pushing back stray curls so he could monitor his brother's face.

"At least that got rid of them," Scott murmured. "Am I still alive?"

"Seems like it."

"Shame."

"Don't talk like that."

"I can't do this anymore. I can't. Doesn't matter what...I'm caught, Virg…in the cracks. You must see it."

"You're strung out. You're exhausted. Of course you think that."

"Why did he do it? He doesn't understand. None of it."

"The psych?" Virgil tried to manhandle Scott into a more comfortable position so he didn't resemble a boneless bag of Lego.

"Father. Why did he agree to this?"

"He had to. To keep you out of jail."

"So, what's this?"

"At least they provide room service."

Scott closed his eyes tightly as if he was suffering then opened them wide. "Did you bring your piano? I want to hear you play."

"I don't think they'd appreciate us moving in. Spoil the neighbourhood. Gordon's harmonica's around here someplace. He thought it might cheer me up."

Scott's face brightened. "Hey, Virg. Do me a favour?"

"Anything. You know that."

"Pyjamas. I need pyjamas. This shirt thing is indecent. I'm practically naked."

"Didn't think you'd mind. The nurses around here aren't bad looking."

Scott's deep blue gaze slid over to meet his, the first eye contact he'd made that afternoon. "Not for what they do."

Virgil chuckled. "Blue ones?"

"Another favour," Scott said urgently. "I think – I'm going to need – that bowl."

* * *

Jeff could almost feel the pulse of the shower water on his skin as they reached the Tracy Corp car park. They'd worked hard that day in the Pacific sun. All of them were tired and dirty but the job was done and the way was clear to bring those Thunderbirds home where they belonged. Now he needed a shower. And such was his desire to feel clean again, he hesitated to answer his com-watch when it vibrated on his arm.

Jeff marshalled his forces before he answered. "Yes, John?"

John's usually deadpan face looked harried. "How far away are you, Father?"

"A couple of minutes. Got back to Tracy Corp just now." He was weary. He admitted it.

"There's –ah- a bit of a stand-off at the hospital. It seems Scott's been throwing his weight around. He had an altercation with one of the psychiatrists."

_Give me strength_. "Did he hurt anyone?"

"Don't think so. Virgil broke it up, apparently, I don't know. I'm not allowed in. Everyone's been ordered to stay out, let him calm down. The staff are too scared to go in. There's talk of moving him to a psych unit. I need your help here."

Jeff left everyone in the penthouse on the pretext of urgent Corporation business and went straight to the hospital.

At the hospital entrance, he was met by Ms Gleeson, who was dressed in her red ensemble, and she didn't look happy. "We're in final negotiations with the Australian government over the new homing missile defence project," she snapped. "We need that contract to justify our presence in this country. Your son is not helping the Tracy Corporation image, Mr Tracy. A-Tech Industries' bid will be looking more inviting by the day."

He turned on her. "You repeat those sentiments, Ms Gleeson, in my hearing or anyone else's and I'll look at your contract. You hear me?"

Her face closed up in rebellion.

Penelope caught him in the foyer. "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Jeff, but public opinion is turning against International Rescue. The media has gone with the article on the People's website. Scott's image is all over the news."

Jeff rubbed his face. "One thing at a time, Penny. Family business first. A wayward son to bring into line. But thanks."

John waited anxiously for him outside the door to Scott's room.

"Right. Let me through," Jeff growled at the huddle in the corridor, to which someone warned him to be careful. "If he tries anything with me, he'll see what he gets."

When he threw back the door and strode in with John, he wasn't prepared for what he saw. Scott lay on the floor, his forehead resting on the vinyl, a pillow rammed into his stomach and Virgil sat beside him, stroking along Scott's exposed back like he was a kitten. Both boys looked up when they entered and Virgil pulled Scott's gown to cover him. Jeff saw Scott's expression turn from hostility to shame.

"Mother of…" John breathed beside him.

John went to rush forward but Jeff stopped him with an outstretched arm.

"John. Give us a minute."

"But they need—"

"John. Out."

John complied and shut the door quietly. Jeff looked over his sons and took two deep breaths.

"Get up. Both of you."

Virgil was the first to move. "He can't."

"Scott. Get off that floor. Where's your self-respect. Remember who you are. You're Tracy men. What the hell are you thinking!"

Scott silently complied with his demand, struggling to get upright. As much as Jeff wanted to help him, he held his ground, fearing to concede at this point would rob his words of impact. Virgil leaned over stiffly and they stood up together. Scott clutched Virgil's upper arm, whether for support or as a shield from him, Jeff couldn't tell.

"What in damnation is going on?"

Virgil spoke first. "The psych said despicable things about our family."

"And that's an excuse for violence? You were taught better than that," Jeff's voice was barely above a whisper but it still resonated with his usual authority. "I don't care what anyone says about us. We know who we are. Because someone says something we don't like, doesn't give us the right to use violence. You are International Rescue operatives and you do that not by right of being a Tracy but because each and every one of you has proven your ability. Nothing and I mean nothing anyone can say will change that. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes, Dad," Virgil said.

"Scott, there's a chance I can get you released on a substantial surety into Penelope's care. That may mean you won't be on remand. But that's on the proviso you conduct yourself properly. They won't grant it if you carry on like this! I want you to spend the time here constructively. You've got a chance. Work out your problem and we'll see about the future. You'll be grounded until you prove to me you're worthy of my trust. I will not let you jeopardise the lives of your brothers or those we help until I'm satisfied. Clear?"

"Dad, go easy," Virgil breathed. "He doesn't have a—"

Jeff spoke solely to Scott. "Son, if you have a problem, you need to ask for help."

"That's not fair," Virgil said.

Jeff held his peace, waiting to see his eldest son's reaction. Scott straightened.

"Yes, sir," he croaked.

Jeff saw resolve pass across his son's face. Scott had made a decision and Jeff prayed it was the right one.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

The following morning, John was back in front of the bank of computers in the Tracy penthouse.

"Not again," Alan groaned as he came into the dining room and shoved a breakfast bowl across the counter towards the sink. "Surely if there were any sordid secrets in Miss World Aid's locker you'd have found them by now."

John agreed grumpily.

"Hey, you see Penelope and Father have been in a huddle for over an hour. What do you think that's about?"

"Probably this." John took a newspaper from his lap and tossed it to Alan. "All the latest good news."

Alan frowned as he read the front-page article aloud. "'_This paper believes International Rescue members are none other than the womanising, playboy sons of multi-billionaire former astronaut Jefferson Tracy. Mr Tracy is the founder of Tracy Corporation known world-wide for its ruthless pursuit of its own and US interests in major countries across the world to the detriment of the environment and local economies.'" _Alan stopped reading. "What? That's bullshit."

John stretched back from the computer. "Well, maybe they got some of it right."

They glanced over their shoulders guiltily when they heard someone come in. It was Gordon, dressed only in his pyjama bottoms.

"Ah, Squirt," John said. "Female at six o'clock."

Gordon ignored him and leaned on the glass with his hands, looking at the ocean.

"We have got to find him water," Alan said. "He just has to have water. What's say about the pool, here?"

"Al, be imaginative. Use the _American Express_ card."

Alan liked that idea and so did Gordon. They left with an armful of towels.

John leaned heavily on his elbow. He was getting edgy. The family was getting edgy. It was one thing to live under the one roof where they had separate accommodation quarters with an expansive tropical island at the front and back doors. It was another for all of them to live on the same floor of a medium rise building where their movements were restricted by heavy security. They were virtually living in each other's air space. He had more room to himself in Thunderbird Five.

Now they couldn't even go for a walk in the city to get some air and the tension showed between them each evening as they fought for a private space in the bed. Alan was the worst, going ballistic if anyone touched him and Alan finally agreed to sleep up the end where there was no danger of one of them accidentally rolling into him. Naturally, the temptation was too much not to give him a shove with a foot, Alan on more than one occasion ending up in a heap on the floor. It didn't help Alan's temper but it did give Gordon and John something to laugh about.

John was also beginning to think his pre-occupation with researching that young woman was due to the tension he felt. He knew he wasn't getting anywhere.

Deirdre Stewart emigrated to Australia with her parents from Ireland when she was ten. They bought a house on the Central Coast, where Deirdre had attended Gosford state schools, going onto nursing at Newcastle on completing her HSC. Her parents were also in the medical field; her father a dentist, her mother a nurse. Deirdre was not a member of a political party, mainstream or otherwise or any other group he could find. Not her, not her parents or brothers. She volunteered for four months every year with World Aid Services, a totally humanitarian project.

_So, why do the hackles stand up on the back of my neck when I hear her speak?_

"John?" Jeff strode into the dining room with Penelope a step behind him. "How long would it take to configure full communication systems to Thunderbird Five?"

John stood up in surprise. "Well, not long. Align the mobile dish. Test the pick-up. Boot up the remote relays."

"Good. Get on it. Get Brains. A family meeting in an hour. International Rescue must show itself or be damned. We can't afford to give our enemies the idea our absence has anything to do with this. Spread the word."

John punched the air. "Yes!"

Jeff went to leave then turned back to him. "And John, I haven't forgotten we need to talk about the other night."

"Yes, Father," he muttered but the thought dampened his new-found enthusiasm for only a nanosecond.

_Thunderbirds are Go__! _

It was what they lived for. And in his excitement, John immediately put aside his interest in Deirdre Stewart.

* * *

Scott found he was getting used to the idea of having nothing to do and nowhere to go. He usually couldn't sit still for more than a few minutes but being medicated to the eyeballs wasn't so bad. After his run-in with the psychiatrist, they'd seen fit to knock him out with another injection. He'd slept through the previous night and now most of the morning, being woken up briefly to take care of the basic needs and to reassure family members he was still sane. He'd even kept down some soup.

Over the last couple of hours he'd figured out a way to stay in bed without going crazy. He partially closed the blinds so he couldn't see the planes taking off. Now, he lay flat-out on his stomach, his head turned so he didn't have to stare at the ceiling. The apparatus on his arm was a problem but he just let the limb hang in mid air over the side of the bed. It hurt but pain was a good thing, right?

There was, after all, no reason to get up. The great Tracy disappointment was now officially grounded. The gears of the justice and health systems were grinding their inevitable workings on his behalf whether he wanted them to do or not. All he had to do was lie there passively and everything would happen around him.

He had turned his Thespian mask flip side. He was polite, co-operative and even made the effort to smile, not because his problems had been miraculously solved but because he'd made a decision. He'd tidy up this mess. He'd take what was coming. No hesitation. All in a manner that wouldn't humiliate his family like this again.

And he knew of only one way to do it.

He felt he'd already lost the respect of his younger brothers. One by one they'd filed past him last night, to sit in that chair Virgil had occupied, looking like they wished they were anywhere else but making meaningless small-talk with their fallen leader. Alan was always fidgety, maybe that wasn't so unusual. John sat passively, his face difficult to read, the content of his conservation non-existent. Gordon was the worst. He squirmed and grinned like he'd been called to the headmaster's office as the visit went something like this.

"How are you, Gordo?"

"Fine. No problems."

"We haven't had that talk."

"S'okay, Scott. It doesn't matter, now."

"Sure it matters. We had a shit day and you were cut about it. We haven't debriefed. Of course it matters."

"It can wait until you get home."

"That might be awhile, Gords."

"You get yourself right. That's all we want."

"Thanks. How's it going with Amber?"

"Good," Gordon chorused.

"Bullshit. It must be hell. You must be re-living what you went through."

"It's okay," his brother said and was gone like a shot out of a gun.

So, big brother was left to doze numbly in this nebulous, free-floating state.

Some time in the morning, Virgil shuffled in. Scott didn't open his eyes but he could hear the rustle of the fine fabric, the scuff of slippers, the screech of the chair legs on the floor.

Then Virgil played the harmonica. Quietly at first as if Virgil wasn't sure he was awake. Scott listened as he played a retinue of tunes, some sad, some lively. It did his soul good. He listened to the soothing strains of the instrument for some time. Scott knew Virgil was great on the piano and there was nothing better after a rescue to hear Virgil play in the living room at home but how could he make the little mouth organ speak to him like that?

He smiled until the last number touched him more deeply than he cared to admit. Reassurance of the family's care was littered around his room in the form of cards and balloons but they'd failed to move him. Even Tin-Tin's effort to ease his soreness from the extensive bruising by massaging him was only physical comfort. As the doleful notes floated around the room, he covered his face to resist the emotion he felt. Before the mesmerising tune finished, catches of the lyrics came unbidden to his mind: about being concerned for his welfare, about being no burden and about being reassured they'd make it together.

Scott knew that song. It was in Gordon's golden oldies collection. And long after Virgil stopped playing, the title circled his mind.

"He ain't heavy, he's my brother…"

Scott was aware Virgil stood over him. He opened his eyes to look into that soft, liquid expression of his. So like Mom it took his breath away, only Mom wouldn't be smiling at him the way Virgil was now.

Scott raised his good fingers towards him and Virgil's strong, callused hand reached out to take his.

"I'm sorry, Virgil."

"We'll get through this," he whispered. "You'll see."

* * *

"Good morning, Amber," Gordon said, leaning over the dark-haired patient. He took her hand to hold it and this morning she didn't squeeze back.

Her eyes slid open. She looked at him with tense, hazel eyes that immediately filled with tears.

"Uh-oh, someone's had a tough night," Gordon said. And he knew now the real work would begin.

A/N: _He ain't heavy, He's my brother_ Copyright 1969, Bob Russell & Bobby Scott, Producer Ron Richards UK parlophone R5806. Vinyl recording. Special thanks to LMC for bringing it to the TBs


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

John listened with satisfaction as the penthouse filled with the familiar cacophony of sound he heard every day in Thunderbird Five. The space station monitored every frequency on the planet in all places and in every language. Here on earth, it was only possible to hear a few at a time, the computer sampling randomly across the range then broadcasting it digitally. Five's mainframe was programmed to forward any message with words such as 'International Rescue' and 'emergency' and translate it into English. They were given priority download to display on John's monitor.

But his satisfaction was short-lived. It seemed everyone was talking about International Rescue. The airwaves were crammed with speculation and theories, everyone talking about the rescue system that most took for granted, and it was crashing the system.

"It's bedlam! I'll never be able to pick out a distress call!" John cried, re-booting the system for the tenth time in as many minutes.

"We need to –uh- change the sampling criteria," Brains said, also listening to the scramble of voices.

"How long?"

"Well, the trick is not to –uh- make the width too narrow so we don't miss a –uh- call and too wide to –uh- let all this unimportant matter through."

John rubbed his hands over his face. But as the computer jumped back to life after the boot, they heard the phrase that got their blood pumping.

"_Calling International Rescue_."

* * *

"Mr Tracy. How many times!" Scott was jolted awake by the nurse's voice at the same time as his injured arm was moved. "The circulation'll be cut-off if you just hang it over the side like that. Come on. Turn over. Sit up. Come, now. This won't help."

He reluctantly turned over in the bed onto his back, shielding his eyes from the bright light coming in through the window.

"Time for your exercises. Then you can think about what you might like for lunch. Your grandmother's already seeing to your brother's order. Let's see. You've kept down flat Coke and soup. Feeling adventurous? How about some dry biscuits to go with it? You can have an electrolyte drink for afternoon tea or something like Ovaltine or Milo. They're milk drinks if you're not sure what they are."

He shook his head. There was only one thing he wanted. Only one thing he cared about.

"Your grandma says your favourite foods are steak and the pies that she makes and wondered if that might tempt you but I think we still may be a ways from that."

Deirdre chatted on, Scott watching her as she did what she needed to do. He watched her intense focus as she concentrated on her duties, the bob of her overlong fringe in thick eyebrows as she rebound his arm with a clean bandage. When she'd finished, she stopped to lean on the sheets.

"What? What are you thinking? You haven't said much."

"Do me a favour, would you? Call me Scott. Mr Tracy is my dad."

Her smile loosened. "How would you like to go for a walk this afternoon?"

Scott's gaze moved to the door. "Out there? Am I allowed?"

"Nelson has given his approval. He seems to think you're coherent and that it might be good for you. But just to let you know, you can't get off this floor without me."

He was surprised he hesitated. He hated being cooped up but then out there people would stare at him, the Great Tracy Disappointment.

"Like on a leash?"

"Not if you behave yourself. You know how hard they'll come down on you if you don't. Just a stroll. Lunch is next then your appointment with Nelson. After that we could."

"What's the bet he's armed with a whip and a chair this time?" Scott said lightly.

She chuckled. "Oh, wow, Virgil's right. You can do that well." She sat on edge of the bed and became serious. "Scott, there's something I want to discuss with you. I think I might have found someone who can help you."

Scott covered his face with his good arm. "Not more help. Please. No more help."

"Not medical help. Help of a different kind. I think I may know of a witness. To the accident. Someone who saw what happened and you might be surprised by what they want to say."

* * *

Jeff responded to the vibration coming from his com-watch immediately. There were different vibration sequences for different codes. He could feel it was the emergency code. An International Rescue emergency.

Ms Gleeson had him bailed up in the Tracy Executive boardroom, outlining her plan to stop these protesters. He listened impatiently to what he considered to be a public relations disaster. His mind was elsewhere, worrying over Scott and the bigger organisation given this latest tragedy, and he could tell she took his silence to mean agreement.

_Later. All this later._

As soon as the call registered, he stood up and walked out, appearing in the Tracy penthouse suite less than two minutes later.

"What have you got, John?"

"Supply aircraft has gone down over the Antarctic. Capacity passenger list of forty on board, mostly multinational research scientists. Almost half have survived the impact. Weather's clear but there's a bruiser of a forty knot wind and temperature has plummeted. Ice is the problem. Unexpected drop has caught them. Land-based rescue is ten hours away. Aerial rescue from the Australian mainland is at least five hours away but conditions will need to ease before they can be deployed. Brains thinks the survivors may not last that long. We could get in there around three, considering we need to go pick up the snow gear."

Jeff turned to Brains, who was studying a map of Antarctica on another monitor.

"The weather forecast –uh- is predicting deteriorating conditions. Increase –uh- of wind speed, decrease –uh- of visibility with blizzard conditions likely. A small window –uh- of opportunity, Mr Tracy."

"Right. Call Alan back from the hospital. Get him up here. Same with Tin-Tin. That many is a handful in those conditions. Brains, you too."

"What about Gordon?" John said.

"Leave him there. He's doing enough. Remind him to watch out for his brothers. Tell Penelope to pull her agents back from watching the store to the hospital. John, you handle communications from here. We won't need Mobile Control, only Thunderbird Two. That'll save on pilots."

"Will three crew be –uh- enough, Mr Tracy?"

"No. I'll go. That'll make four."

"You?" John blurted, then tried to cover his insensitivity. "I mean…sorry."

Jeff laughed. "It's okay, son. First time for everything. I'll pilot. The rest can concentrate on the medical. I think I'm going to enjoy saying _Thunderbirds are Go_ – at last."

* * *

Deirdre had Scott's attention. He raised his forearm from his face. "Go on. I'm listening."

She glanced towards the door of the hospital room before answering. "I know of a witness who says they can help you. That the accident may not have been your fault."

"Who? How?"

"Someone who was there."

"Then they need to go to the police."

"They will. In time. They want to speak to you first."

Scott thought about what she said for a moment then groaned. "Oh, I get it. How much do they want? They want payment, right?"

"No. Nothing like that. All they're asking is to meet with you."

"Why?"

"I don't know – except to discuss about something you've lost. I don't know what that means. I know that's vague."

Scott pushed himself up and saw stars when he put pressure on his right hand by habit. "The watch? Have they got the watch?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know. Something you lost is what he said."

"He? About my height? Slim, curly hair, dark eyes?"

She nodded.

"Who is this person?"

She shook her head.

"How do you know him?"

"I live in the airport precinct. It's like a small town."

Scott's eyes narrowed. "So, how did he know you had access to me? Did you tell him? Aren't you bound by confidentiality clauses?"

"I didn't tell him. He asked me. He knows where I work but he doesn't know I'm looking after you. It's on the news where you are. He told me he thought he could help your situation if I could somehow get a message to you and I really do think you need that."

"He'll want something. No question. Okay. I'll see him. Tell him to come."

"He can't come here. He can't get past the security. He said to meet him in the hospital dining room."

"I can get there?"

"You can with me. I'll take you. This afternoon. I'm supposed to meet for afternoon tea – with you, if you agree."

Scott frowned at her. "You're taking a hell of a risk. This bastard'll want something. He stole that watch from me. He'll threaten me. Blackmail me. You want to be involved in that?"

"There's no threat to you. I promise. He promises."

"He promises? You believe the word of a stranger? Ms Stewart, surely you're not that naïve."

Her eyes hardened. "I believe what this guy says."

"You tell him if he brings a gun, he better be prepared to use it. We take threats very seriously."

"There's no need to talk like that," she snapped. "You guys really are paranoid. Guns aren't allowed in the hospital."

He sighed. "Look. You don't know how we live. The last person who wanted something took Gordon and beat the crap out of him in an attempt to persuade us. That was only last year. Rest assured they didn't get what they wanted and believe me we will protect ourselves."

"Gordon?" she gasped. "Not Gordon? What happened?"

Scott looked away. "I shouldn't have said anything, he'd be embarrassed. Deirdre, we get threats all the time. There are people who want what we have so bad they'll hurt us to get it."

"I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I swear."

Scott shook his head as if in disbelief. "Could've fooled me. You give a mean shot. Look. I'll meet the guy. I'll hear what he's got to say. I'll hand over a reasonable amount of money for the watch. That's it. He'll get no information and he certainly won't get me. He'll have to kill me." Her forehead wrinkled incredulously. "Deirdre. A word of warning. If I don't come back from this meeting and my family finds out you're involved, you better start running. And I mean running. Got that?"

"I know," she said grimly. "You Tracys take threats very seriously."

* * *

A straight-backed man strode through the airport precinct not seeing the colourful flags and lounging patrons that had captured Penelope's imagination not so many days before. He walked stiffly, his modern-cut, dark suit barely agitated despite his swift pace. His face was emptied of expression, as blank as the dark sunglasses he wore. With the precision of habit he followed the directions he'd been given and it was only when he stopped outside the shop of the People's Co-operative that the hand that held the address belied his eagerness.

There was no reason to hesitate. He'd done his research. He'd been careful. Nothing would stop him from entering the shop and starting the process he'd come halfway around the world to accomplish.

_Are you watching, son? _

* * *

Jeff took the mighty equipment carrier Thunderbird Two low over where his instruments were telling him was the downed craft.

"Can't see a damnable thing," he grunted.

Alan leaned in the crew chair to get a better look at the instrumentation. It was the one compromise Jeff had to make. His youngest son insisted he could fly this giant green bug in his sleep but Jeff ordered them to have maximum medical kits prepared and checked by the time they arrived at the danger zone. That meant a full medical crew. So he flew and Alan co-piloted.

The visual showed the wind hurled ice and dirt from the summer thaw across the surface of the landscape at the velocity of a jet. They still couldn't see the aircraft, an _A319_ airbus, but knew from the scanners it was beneath them.

"Wind speed's tricky at ground level," Alan told him. "Whipping to forty. You'll have to go in hard. Make sure it's upwind or our bulk will catch it."

Brains was also watching the read-outs. "If you –uh- land upwind, it will make the –uh- transfer of patients from the snow mobile hazardous. There would be –uh- no shelter from the elements –uh- in the pod. I would suggest –uh- a more unconventional approach."

They agreed to come in using reverse tack, the thrusters on until touchdown to keep it stable.

"Thunderbird Two to Forward Base. You reading me, John?"

"Right here, Father."

"How's the surface? Ice or earth?"

"Ice but plenty thick enough. Be wary of surface debris. Aircraft mishaps are notoriously untidy."

"Any chance of fire? Any hot spots?"

"Temperature indicators suggest negative. Interior levels are decreasing and rapidly."

"Watch it, will you?"

"Like a hawk."

Jeff turned to Brains. "Any point in dousing the fuselage in dicetylene? Don't these supply planes have fuel on board? Sure hate to have a fire while we're working."

"I don't think so, Mr Tracy. It's true this –uh- type of aircraft carry enough fuel to –uh- not need refuelling at Casey station but to use the retardant would be foolhardy –uh- unless absolutely necessary. The wind would blow most –uh- of the material away. We'd only have –uh- one attempt at it and if a fire did start it might not be –uh- where it's needed.

"Right. We'll go in."

Jeff was surprised he was sweating by the time he had the massive machine on the ground. He admitted he bumped it in the heavy wind gusts and knew this would get back to Virgil. It was a tense time. No-one spoke until the motors were shutting down, before the general scuffle to don thermal gear and snow suits. It wasn't snowing but the external temperature was reading minus 20 degrees Celsius.

Unpleasant.

Jeff didn't realise how unpleasant until he climbed out of the purpose-built snow tractor. It was a broad machine with corresponding caterpillar-covered wheels. The interior could carry four equipped litters, the rescue workers and all their gear. He went down the crew ladder first. The wind whipped away his breath and his face immediately stung in the cold. He thought he heard Alan shout something before the sound of his son's voice was lost to him as Jeff stepped off the ladder.

The wind caught him and his feet went from under him. He fell backwards on the ice, sliding uncontrollably away from the machine. He flayed to stop himself but that move meant he hit obstacles in his path harder. He finally stopped, coughing at being momentarily winded.

When he opened his eyes, he was horrified to find white-out conditions. He sat up. He wiped his goggles yet still could barely see more than a foot in front of him, and he was struck by the realisation he had no idea which direction was the right one. He reached for his com-watch, feeling foolish but to become lost would've been lethal.

"John? Where the heck am I?"

"Hold tight. Alan's coming. He's about six feet behind you. I'll guide him, though he's probably following your trail."

Jeff looked around at the skid marks he'd left on the ground. Alan bounded up, grinning at him.

"Warned you that first step could be a kicker. You okay?"

Jeff grumbled the affirmative as they stepped carefully back to the waiting crew.

John confirmed most of the survivors were towards the rear of the mid section. The front was destroyed, and the tail held cargo and scientific equipment. They didn't waste time surveying the damage or finding a way in. They made their own. The weather would close in soon, and they needed to get these people into a warm environment before they perished.

Each team member was equipped with an oxyhydnite cutter as well as their standard medical kits. Alan grappled to climb the remnant of the starboard wing and cut through near the emergency hatch. He had a tough time maintaining a hold. The wind sandblasted them with ice and grit that stung when any part of the body was exposed to it even for a short time. It glazed everything with a sheen of slick ice and even with crampons under their boots they had to be careful how they walked.

The interior of the craft was the mess Jeff expected to find. The jumble of seats, interior panelling, wires and twist of structures subjected to more force than they could bear made it unrecognisable as the interior of a modern airliner with an orderly central aisle and paired setting. At least there'd been no fire. The light level was low, although it was summer and the sun was shining above this surface haze. They used their headlamps on their helmets to find the survivors.

There were eighteen people still alive and Tin-Tin did a rapid triage to ascertain the most badly injured, writing a priority number on each waiting shoulder. Apart from the howl of the wind through exposed structures, it was relatively quiet inside the wreck. The survivors were shocked and cold, the bleak environment outside not encouraging the less injured to hanker for a hasty departure despite the threat of fire. There were broken bones, head injuries and impact injuries. They took four at each trip and they worked in teams. Jeff cleared the debris, often using the cutters. Alan, Brains and Tin-Tin extracted the trapped or transferred the injured to a litter and carried them to the waiting snow mobile. After the first trip, Tin-Tin remained in the sickbay of Thunderbird Two to administer emergency treatment to those who'd been rescued.

They had a relatively unhindered transfer until they returned to the rear of the passenger compartment to retrieve those less badly hurt. A middle-aged woman clung to the body of a much younger male. She was not trapped but the unfortunate beside her had been caught by something that had come forward from aft.

Jeff cleared and pulled back a number of seats to allow Brains and Alan in to retrieve her.

Alan knelt at her side. "Ma'am. Can you tell us where you hurt? We'll get you out, now. We don't want to hurt you."

Despite speaking loudly and slowly, the woman didn't respond to Alan's voice. Her eyes were open and clear. Her ankle appeared broken, though she didn't flinch when Brain touched it. She clutched the jacket of her deceased seat companion and whimpered softly.

It wasn't until Alan and Brains tried to roll her onto the litter after stabilising the limb that they got any response from her. She stared at them and shouted in a foreign language, her voice shrill yet menacing. She hit at Alan's hands as he tried to console her then kicked at Brains with her good leg to send him sprawling across the floor.

Jeff went to the aid of the little scientist.

"Ma'am. Take it easy." Alan reassured her. "It's okay. We need to get you out of here."

She objected, if the expression on her face was anything to go by. She sprayed them with verbal hiss and venom. Her hands immediately returned to clutch the jacket beside her. Jeff went to help but even the three of them couldn't get the woman to relinquish her possession of the body beside her.

Jeff opened the link to John.

"What's she saying?" He held his watch close to her mouth as the woman barbed them with words they couldn't understand.

"She doesn't want to go," John replied. "She speaking Spanish or a derivative of it. She won't leave her –ah- son."

Alan stepped over the woman to look more closely at the person beside her. He shook his head. Jeff could see the likeness, the thick dark hair, the squareness to the face.

John told them what to tell her but it made no difference. She was adamant.

"She says she won't leave unless he comes."

"No can do, John," Jeff said. "You know the rules. We deal with the living not the dead. The young man's trapped – and deceased. There's nothing we can do. Tell her, John. Explain it to her. We don't have time for niceties."

He took off his watch and placed it near the woman's face. If anything it made her worse, she screaming at the com-watch, trying to snatch it out of his hand. The three retreated, Jeff worried by the passing of time.

"Sedate her, Brains," he snapped. "We must keep moving."

"I would advise –uh- against that, sir. We, as yet, don't know the full –uh- extent of her injuries. It could be –uh- fatal if she had some unknown internal injuries."

Jeff hesitated, not sure how to handle the situation except by force.

"Dad," Alan whispered. "She wants her son. She'll go if he goes. Simple."

"We don't have time to free him."

"I'll do it. We leave her till last. You go and help Brains with the rest. They're not so bad. She's upsetting the others. She's not going to let up if we take her without him."

"You suggest we take a body on board? That's not fair on the survivors."

"We take them last and keep them separate."

"It seems the –uh- only humane way," Brains said. "Maybe we can't help the –uh- deceased. This may help the woman."

He reluctantly agreed when he noticed the whine of the wind outside had increased.

"Okay, John. Explain to her what we're doing."

Jeff got John to reiterate their promise to bring the boy with her. She allowed them to fit her into the litter then move her further along the plane while Alan retrieved her son. Jeff returned to help Alan when all the others were safely in the medical unit aboard Thunderbird Two.

Jeff felt pressure on his arm.

"Dad, be warned. It's gross. I – had to cut him."

The look on Alan's face prepared him for a shock. As soon as they rolled the deceased towards the body bag, Jeff saw what he meant. He recoiled reflexively at the horrific sight, his forearm coming across his face as some form of protection. Afterwards, he wasn't sure if it was because the dark-haired boy reminded him of Scott or if the sight of most of the lad's internal organs trailing behind was so hideous he couldn't accept what his eyes were telling him.

Alan steadied him and did most of the handling. Jeff stared at his blood-soaked gloves as they transferred him to the Thunderbird Two.

Jeff sat in the pilot's seat, waiting for the all-clear to return to Hobart in Australia to dispatch the injured while he drank coffee to warm up. The time was spent thinking about Scott. What if the car had hit that pole harder? What if his son had ended up like that?

Alan came forward to give the signal to leave. "You okay, Father? I'll pilot if you need me to."

"Stay with the injured," Jeff said as he did pre-launch checks. "Phew. That sure was a tough one."

Alan chuckled. "Dad. That was an easy one."

"All right. All right. Don't say it," Jeff would have liked to laugh but his thoughts weighed heavily. "Alan, why didn't you tell me Scott was having problems? I thought I could trust you to be direct with me."

Alan's answer was forthright as always though the sentiment behind it surprised him. "Because there's no other person on this planet I'd rather be out here with doing what we do. Except Virgil. Scott is _the_ best, Dad. Scott and Virgil together are unbelievable."

"So, what went wrong? Why didn't he tell me?"

"Maybe he has been. Only you didn't hear."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Virgil looked up from where he leaned on the counter of the security station at the hospital and couldn't believe his eyes.

"Scott?"

Scott walked down the hospital corridor, albeit a little unsteadily, with Deirdre beside him as support. _Way to go, big brother!_ Virgil referred back to the group around the desk who were sharing a joke and listening to him play a tune on the harmonica.

"Walkies," the security guard next to him said. "Dee's taking him for a few circuits of the floor."

Virgil excused himself from the group and hurried to catch them. "Hey, bro. Wait up."

They didn't seem to hear him as they disappeared near the lifts. Virgil skipped around the corner just as his brother was about to step towards the open door of one of them.

"Scott?"

Scott and Deirdre pulled back, staring at him.

"Where are you going?"

"E-exercise."

"You're not allowed to leave this floor."

"S'okay. Quick spin downstairs. Good for morale."

Virgil looked at Deirdre. "Is this okay?"

She bit at her lip and half-smiled, giving him the impression of agreement. Virgil was a little puzzled.

"Mind if I come?"

Scott leaned on the wall between the lifts. "As a matter of fact, I do. I appreciate the thought. Not this time, hey. Next time. Won't be long."

As much as that refusal bit coming from Scott, Virgil was not going to be put off. "What's going on? That restriction was the stipulation of the police, not Dad."

"Virg, Virg. Doesn't do you to worry. I'll be back before you know it."

"I'll come with you."

"Look. Some appointment about my arm. It's nothing."

"Well, why didn't you say! That's important."

Virgil saw heat gather behind his brother's eyes. Scott took Deirdre around the shoulder and drew her to him.

"Do I have to spell it out?"

Virgil might have fleetingly considered the idea if Deirdre appreciated Scott's sudden affection but, at his touch, she cringed and showed more alarm than any warmth. He knew Scott was lying to him. Deirdre swiped her ID through a panel then typed in a code and when the lift door opened again, Scott pushed her into it. Virgil barged his way in after them before the doors could close.

"What's going on?" Virgil said. He stared from one to the other. "Something's going on, I can tell."

Scott stood on the opposite side to him, looking uncomfortable and looking in every direction except at him. Virgil stared at Deirdre and her gaze wouldn't meet his.

"Ma'am? Please? If there's been a threat."

She looked to Scott, worriedly. "You're not the only stubborn one."

Scott leaned his head against the wall. "It's in the genes."

"Virgil," she said calmly. "There's no threat to your brother or to your family. Scott's going to – meet someone. That's all."

"Meet?" Virgil's mind was immediately full of questions.

"Look. No time for twenty questions," Scott said. "Either you're in or you're out. Apparently I can't stop you."

"The hell you can. I'm coming. Of course I'm coming." Virgil glared at the nurse. "This had better not be a trap."

Scott chuckled, a fraction sharply. "She's been read the riot act." He glanced down at her. "See? Paranoia must be passed on as well."

* * *

"You should see the people, John. It's amazing." Alan sounded hyper.

What John thought was amazing was the difference ten minutes could make. Ten minutes ago they were professionals concentrating on a successful patient transfer to the Royal in Hobart. Now, Alan was giving him an upbeat description of the welcoming committee in and around the capital city of the island state of Tasmania. Thunderbird Two flew up the Derwent, a massive waterway bound by sloped peaks around which the city had been built.

"It's like Wellington in New Zealand. You wouldn't believe the houses. They've all got a view of the harbour. There's people everyplace. Even on their roofs. Every vantage point. We can see banners and people waving flags. I wish Gordo could see the harbour. Every boat is here. Flags waving. People waving. There's hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Oh, this is really something, John. I wish you could see it."

John followed along. He got the idea. He stretched back from his computer and grinned. He gathered the people were not only glad their scientists were safe but that International Rescue had at last made an appearance.

It was _so_ good to be back.

When Alan's commentary lapsed, Jeff piped in. "Good job, everyone. Debrief when we get back. We'll take Thunderbird Two back home for a restock and maintenance check. Thunderbird Two to Forward Base. Out."

John went to the window and used his telescope to admire his own harbour view. Always nice to be rewarded. With a crooked smirk, he watched a sunbather rub lotion into the bare buttocks of her female companion until he heard a _ding_ to indicate something had landed in his personal email box on his laptop. He sauntered back to click on the message. It was the results of a birth, deaths and marriages search on Deirdre Stewart, the nurse at the hospital.

As he read, his eyes widened. Even before he finished reading, his finger was on his com-watch. "John to Lady Penelope. Come in. It's urgent."

Penelope's perfectly arranged face appeared before him. "What can I do for you, John?"

"Get that nurse Deirdre Stewart away from Scott. Her mother's a Langley. That woman is Martin Langley's cousin!"

* * *

Scott, Virgil and Deirdre exited the lift on the first floor. They'd only walked a few paces when Scott barred Virgil's way with his good arm.

"Last chance to go back."

"Nothing doing," Virgil grunted. "If you don't think there's a threat, what's the big deal if I come?"

"Because I don't want to involve… Look, the other night. Maybe I did the wrong thing, I don't know. I still believe it was the best decision I could have made and, if this was to be the outcome, I'd make the same decision again. No hesitation."

"No way. All this trouble. I should've stopped you."

"Virg. What if you were driving? Huh? Now you'd know what it's like to seriously hurt someone, not the least your own brothers. When I saw that girl hit the windscreen…then you go down like that… Afterwards I felt…I felt like something sort of tore. In here." He rubbed his chest. "There's no way I'd want you to feel that. It's the worst…I couldn't even begin to describe it. Father would never forgive me if you got hurt…again…because of me. _I_ would never forgive me. Virg, beyond that. You remind us of her. You keep us going, you know that. No-one would ever forgive the Great Tracy Disappointment if he damages Mom again."

Virgil frowned. "What are you talking about? You're not making sense. Mom? That's absurd. Disappointment?"

"Um, guys," Deirdre said, tapping at her watch. "You have to be back before you're missed. A couple of minutes – at the outside."

Scott continued to speak to Virgil. "Haven't you heard? My new name. The Great Tracy Disappointment."

"No way in hell. You're not."

"Heard it from the man, himself. _Think_ Virgil. Do you really want to do this?"

"Of course. But?"

Scott let him go, straightened Virgil's gown then his own. "Okay. Let's do it. We'll talk later. How do we look? Intimidating?"

"In pyjamas?" his brother scoffed.

Scott leaned his elbow on Deirdre's shoulder for support.

"You okay?" she asked. "Your temp's been up, today."

"Fine. Fine."

"Never believe him when he says that," Virgil muttered.

Scott referred to Deirdre beside him. "I think I impressed Nelson this afternoon."

"Admitting to every problem known to humanity isn't the way to do it."

"At least no-one can accuse me of hiding anything."

She guffawed. "You? Hide something? What would give them that idea? Come on, this won't hurt a bit."

* * *

John paid the taxi driver to break the law but he was still too late by the time he arrived on their floor.

"Where are they?" he despaired. "Virgil's gone? Where the _heck_?"

"Sorry, John," Penelope said and sighed. "Not quite quick enough."

John scrambled for the emergency button on his com-watch.

* * *

Scott actually laughed at Deirdre's sarcasm when she led them into the busy dining area and it took him less than a minute to know who they were going to see. Their object was seated near an exit, facing the main entrance they'd just come through. Their quarry watched the doorway intently, keyed-up Scott could see. Scott remembered the darting hand movements, the flick of the fingers as he touched his glasses. A nervous habit. He remembered the guy, all right.

_Okay, know your enemy. First strategy of warfare. So he's nervous. Hasn't done this before? A good sign. Far better than a cold professional_.

Scott's gaze did a quick pan of the area, automatically weighing the risks, the potentials of the situation.

_No-one within thirty feet of him. Medical personnel aplenty, older ladies_.

They stood at his table. Martin Langley was wearing a tight-fitting open neck shirt and dress pants.

_No jacket. Less potential for hidden weapons_.

Martin stood up, quickly, and offered his hand to each of the Tracys. "Martin. Martin Langley. Just Martin. Please."

Deirdre introduced Virgil, and Scott could detect no hesitation at Martin accepting his unexpected companion.

_A firm, direct handshake. Good eye contact. Not what I'd expect_.

"Sit. Please," Martin invited. "I won't keep you. I'll –er- be as plain as possible. I want a trade. A simple trade." He referred principally to Scott. "I have information that will clear you of any dangerous driving offences and I have something you'd want returned. I can also do something about International Rescue's reputation."

Scott slouched in his chair, his good arm hooked around the back. "Why should that interest me, us? We're not anything to do with that organisation. I only need to clear my name."

Martin had a pile of newspapers on the table next to him and slid forward the previous week's correspondence.

"Just in case your family hasn't passed on all the news. These will interest you. Tracy Corporation and International Rescue have taken a beating."

The first newspaper article hit Scott between the eyes. The flash. So, someone had taken his picture at the crash scene. His image was on the front page of the mainstream newspaper. He went to flip through the papers when Virgil's hand stopped him. Scott angrily brushed it away so he could look through the rest.

He was shocked. Totally and utterly shocked. No-one had told him about any of this. He glanced around the room, aware that most of the people in this food hall, in this hospital, in this country could've seen his picture. He felt his face burn with the humiliation of it. He sat up stiffly.

"Why haven't you spoken to my father about this? If you want to trade, he's the one you need to talk to."

Martin shook his head slowly. "You're the only one I've managed to contact, so far."

Scott looked again at his picture on the front page. "Okay. How much do you want?" he said finally.

"I'm not asking for money."

"Come on. You want to trade. Information for money. Simple. How much?"

"I want you to convince your father of something."

"Me? Convince my father? Hey, not the flavour of the month right now. Look. How do I know you know anything?"

"Remember what else I have that belongs to you."

Martin's intense gaze left his to stare beyond a point on his shoulder. Their guest reached across to tap Deirdre's arm, and Scott and Virgil glanced behind them. A security guard stood in the entrance, staring at them and talking into his mike.

"We've been missed," Scott hissed.

Deirdre stood up. "It's okay. I'll go and tell them everything's all right."

Scott watched as she walked over but whatever she said didn't convince the guard. He grabbed her by the upper arm. She didn't look pleased. The guard wouldn't let her go despite her protests and was still talking on the radio.

"He's requesting backup. We're in trouble," Scott said, alarmed to think if he was taken into custody now he would have no chance of fixing this mess. "Look. I want to finish this conversation. We must. Nothing and I mean nothing must stop us."

Martin frowned as Deirdre was pulled away. "Are you sure?"

"You bet."

"I know a place."

"Great! Go!"

Martin leapt from the table and out the nearest exit. Scott followed a little more slowly, leaving Virgil by himself at the table.

"Scott? Are you _crazy_?"

"I have to sort this," he shouted over his shoulder. "Can't go back, bro. Look at that stuff. And he has the watch."

"Him? That's him? No, Scott. Stop. You don't understand. Wait! Stop…!"


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

Gordon was having a good day. Amber had been scheduled for further surgery on her legs that afternoon and Hubert had taken him back to Amber's apartment to pick up a few personal items. It was a welcome break from the intensity of the ICU environment. Hubert seemed relaxed in his company and Gordon, though uneasy with his secret, found the man interesting. At the flat, Gordon had a little time to look around.

He found one interesting morsel. Amber had received three cards from someone who signed as Martin. And they weren't posted. They'd been dropped in her box, one for each day. The only disappointment was that Hubert didn't know anything about it but Gordon was pleased he may have found a link to the Co-operative shop.

He was coming back to the hospital foyer when his watch vibrated the emergency code. Hubert was beside him so he couldn't respond straight away. Just as he was trying to think of an excuse to get away, he saw Scott and Virgil come out a side entrance.

Gordon was stunned at first but there was no mistaking his brothers in their co-ordinating nightwear.

"Scott? Virgil?"

Gordon watched as the man with them signalled for a taxi. That didn't seem right. Scott wasn't fit enough to be out, wasn't allowed out. What the hell was going on?

He forgot who was with him as he started to walk towards his brothers.

"Scott! Virgil!" he bellowed.

They looked up briefly as if they'd heard their names before they ducked into the back of the vehicle. Gordon was about to run after them then he saw Mr Kreuzer's angry face coming at him. It was like moving in a slow motion dream.

He turned back to his companion and he was aware the man shouted at him.

"…a Tracy!"

_A Tracy! A Tracy!_ He thought he heard but that was all. Mr Kreuzer king-hit him with a single blow to the centre of his face and the next he knew he was headed for the pavement.

* * *

Scott and Virgil sat in the back of the taxi. Martin was in the front, giving directions to the driver, encouraging the man to drive quickly.

Virgil had his arms crossed and didn't look happy. "This is ridiculous. We have to talk."

"I'm listening."

"Not here. In private. This is—"

"Ridiculous. I know. I heard the first time."

"It's unnecessary," Virgil whispered.

"I don't see a problem. You're with me. No guns, no physical threat. My instinct's good on this. He'll negotiate, I know he will. We'll talk, we'll agree on something. Simple. Hey, Virg." He nudged his brother with his elbow. "You take Grandma's advice about eating your vegies seriously? You know, so you're healthy on the inside?"

Virgil stared at him.

"You been eating your vegies, plenty of fibre, plenty of the good stuff, you know, so you're regular? Good transit time, et cetera et cetera?"

Virgil's face coloured a fraction. "Are you asking me if I've _been_?"

Scott raised his eyebrows waiting for an answer.

"Well…I…damn it Scott, now I feel guilty about a perfectly normal bodily function."

"I take that as a 'yes'?"

"Well…"

"Spare me the details, bro. I have a reason for asking. Any possibility of you having retained something?"

Comprehension dawned. No edible transmitter. "Oh, yeah. No, I guess not. I needed to take another one today. You?"

"I've barely kept water down."

"We're on our own," Virgil whispered, having reached the same conclusion Scott had.

The car went two blocks then pulled into a cobbled lane.

"This is where we get out, fellas," Martin told them.

Martin paid the driver and the car was gone with a squeal on the stones. He led them down the lane and into an alley before stopping at a manhole cover and leaning over it to pull it up.

"Down there, that's where we need to go."

Virgil hung back. "No way are we going down there. No way."

* * *

John and Penelope stood to one side as Deirdre was interrogated by police and security guards in the administrator's office. They were getting nowhere. She refused to admit anything and heaped the blame on Scott.

"I don't know where they've gone," she said evenly. She stared at the floor as she spoke, her voice barely showing emotion even though they went over the same ground repeatedly. "I don't know anything about what happened. This was Mr Tracy's idea. I had no idea what he was going to do."

"You weren't allowed to leave the floor," the guard said.

"As I've already told you a hundred times. When Mr Tracy walked past the lift, he made me open it for him then he pushed me into it. I couldn't stop him. He said he wanted to go downstairs for fresh air. I thought I'd better go to see if he was all right. He saw someone he knew. They were talking. That's all I know until the guard came. Then they ran away."

"The person Scott met happens to be your cousin," John said. "I suspected some connection when I heard the same inflection you give to certain words. I find that a mighty interesting coincidence."

Deirdre turned her head towards him without looking at his face. "I was to meet Martin for afternoon tea. He was waiting for me. I had no idea he knew Mr Tracy."

John stepped to her chair. "That is the biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard. Your cousin has been spreading slander about our family and our organisation. Scott doesn't know anyone in this city. You arranged for a meet between the two of them so he can blackmail us. Didn't you? Didn't you?"

"It's not like that."

"Uh, Mr Tracy." The guard indicated his screen. "Security footage's up. Interesting viewing."

They had partial footage of the lift area and dining room. It showed Scott being challenged by his brother and it did show Scott push Deirdre into the lift. The footage from the dining room showed Scott and Virgil well behind Martin as they made their escape.

"It really doesn't show any threat towards your brothers. The meeting is unusual but there doesn't appear to be any coercion for them to leave. They appear to go voluntarily."

"Scott ran off," Deirdre snapped at John. "Face it. It has nothing to do with me."

John was too livid to answer civilly so he turned to the guard. "Any idea how they left?"

The guard tapped a few keys. "The external cameras mainly face the door. Your brothers run out of range. They're following that guy but he's not forcing them."

The police officer took John aside. "We don't have evidence anything's happened to them. It does look like they've gone of their own free will. That means we'll be forced to issue a warrant for Scott Tracy's arrest. He was at the hospital under certain conditions and he's breached those conditions. I'm sorry. There's nothing we can hold Miss Stewart with. Mr Tracy is the only person of interest to us at the moment."

"Let her go, John," Penelope whispered in his ear and he nodded.

As much as he hated to admit it, it did look bad for Scott but John believed the nurse had arranged for them to meet. This was Martin Langley and this was International Rescue business. No coincidences there. His father had said a threat would come. Why did it have to happen when he was in charge?

"Okay," he agreed. "There's nothing more to be done here."

Deirdre was told she could go but as she left the administrator called her back. "Consider yourself stood down until a full enquiry is heard. You may be innocent. Unfortunately, the fact that you didn't raise the alarm when the patient left a secured area is a serious breach of your duty of care. You have a pager for those contingencies. Security will escort you to the front entrance and see you off. Until you hear from us, Ms Stewart. Good day."

Deirdre glared at John as she stormed from the room. Later, Penelope and John followed the nurse into the hall and Penelope drew to one side to contact Parker on her com-watch.

"Yes, milady," a drowsy voice responded.

"Enjoying that wonderful sunshine, I see. I have a job for you, Parker." She gave the nurse's description. "Follow her. See what she does and where she goes. And report back."

"Yes, milady. Will do. Parker out."

Penelope turned to John. "How's Jeff taken this latest development?"

John rubbed his face with his hand. "Why do I always have to give the good news? He did a spectacular imitation of a volcanic eruption. Especially when I suggested Scott may have gone without coercion and has taken Virgil with him. You know, I think Scott might wish the police catch up with him first. Dad is not happy. They're coming back from Tracy island as fast as Thunderbirds Two's engines can get them here."

Penelope looked thoughtful. "Did anyone actually tell poor Scott that the communicator has been switched? I don't believe he would run off like that without a strong reason."

"Well – I don't know. I didn't. Dad was keen not to stress him out thinking about any of this. He told us to be upbeat about things. Virgil's been with him. I don't know what he's told him."

"And now, judging by the papers on the table they were at, the dear boy knows what the world has been saying about him and about International Rescue." She shook her head sadly. "We need to find him, John, and find him quickly."

They went back into the administrator's office.

"Has Gordon reported in?" John asked her. "I haven't heard from him in ages."

She indicated the negative and a security officer overheard.

"Gordon? Tall, muscular guy with red hair?"

"That's him. Where have you seen him?"

"A & E. He was assaulted out front."

"_What__?_"

"When we came out chasing your lot, we saw this fella hit the deck not far away. A foreign guy going ballistic around him, wanting him to take a swing back. Didn't realise he was another one of you guys. Struth, you blokes really know how to step in it."

"Ain't that the truth," John said before he bolted from the room.

* * *

Gordon had the worst kind of headache. It was one that started as a jackhammer in his left temple then radiated like shards of glass through his skull to make him feel nauseous and off-balance. He was stretched out in the day/recovery area after they'd put six stitches into his eyebrow and was holding a cold pack across his aching face with both hands. They'd given him a shot for the pain but he was misery personified. He heard the crack of leather and John's voice at about the same time.

"Heya kid. What's happening?"

Gordon could only groan. John lifted the pack up off his face, and Gordon saw him wince and grin.

"That is going to be one hell of a shiner, Squirt. Wait till Grandma sees that shirt. Second one you've ruined this week. Didn't WASP teach you to duck?"

"Hubert knows I'm a Tracy," Gordon said dejectedly, taking back the cold pack to put on his face.

"How did he find that out?"

"When Scott and Virgil ran out. What were they doing outside? I don't get—"

"You saw them?"

"Only for a second. I called out to them and that's when Hubert—"

"Did you see where they went?"

"Got into a cab."

"Didn't get the company? Licence plate? By any small chance, did you?"

Gordon raised the cold pack from his face. "A yellow one. I noticed that much. Con-? Com-? _Combined_, maybe? Something like that. Don't you know where they are? What about their transmitters?"

"Looks like Virgil has –ah- _passed_ his. No signal."

"Shit," Gordon whispered.

"Exactly."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

Virgil stood in the laneway where the taxi had dropped them off, his arms folded, one leg rested. Scott leaned over the dark cavity of the open drain, peering dubiously into the hole.

"There's a light down there, Virg. Doesn't look too bad."

"I am not going down any sewer in my pyjamas. I spend enough time underground."

Martin grinned. "It's not a sewer. Well, it used to be more than one hundred years ago, now it's only storm water. It's not dirty, I promise you. In fact, this is part of the Sydney tour circuit. It's called the Tank Stream or at least it leads into it. You can actually pay to go down there to walk the length of the city."

"How far do we go?" Scott said, worriedly. "We were in the wreck as well."

"Not far. Just under two blocks. We're going to my shop. There's been people watching the place so we've been using the underground access."

"Often have people watching your place, do you?" Virgil muttered. "Probably members of the Drug Squad."

"Drugs? Us?" Martin shook his head. "Nope."

"Then what's that area of heat source at the rear of your premises? John predicts a hydroponics set-up. Probably drugs. What better way to ensure your customer trade than via the underground."

Martin laughed. "No drugs, I can assure you. If you hurry, you'll find out what we actually do."

"S'okay, Virg. I'll go. Go back. You better be quick. You're drawing a crowd." Virgil grunted as he glanced around him and saw passers-by were staring at them. "I don't think Aussies usually run around city streets in their pyjamas."

"Bro, stop. Consider what you're doing. Don't make this worse. Please." When Scott stood his ground, Virgil took his appeal to Martin. "Look. Give us a minute, will you?"

Martin held up both his hands and retreated. "I'm not going to force either of you. I can help your brother, that's all I can say. I only need him to listen for a few minutes and let me put my case."

Virgil took a few steps towards Martin. "This is far from what I'd call helping."

Scott, already impatient at the delay, climbed onto the ladder using his good hand and disappeared down the hole, trying not to wince at the pressure across his chest. He heard Virgil call after him using the most colourful of language.

"Too late, bro. I'm committed," Scott shouted back as he stood at the bottom to wait for Martin. He was surprised to see Virgil came down the ladder next, still muttering his disapproval under his breath, then Martin came last after him, dropping the heavy cover home above them.

It took them longer to cover the two blocks than Scott would've liked even though it was easy walking. The surface was lined with slabs of sandstone, the central culvert carried any water and the rest was firm and reasonably clean. The semi-circular drain was high enough so they could stand up, was lit and the major branches were sign-posted in old English script to give the street names they were passing under. What concerned Scott was the number of times he needed to stop to rest. He started to tremble and predicted low blood sugar. When he finally flagged, Virgil helped him the last little way.

"Lots of people use these tunnels," Martin was telling them when he stopped at one particular ladder. "Quick and energy-saving way to get around the city."

Scott thought sitting down was a good way to save energy and he tried to pull away when Virgil touched him around the neck and face.

"You're sweating," Virgil whispered to him. "It's a bit airless down here but it's cool. Are you okay?"

"So long as it doesn't rain, huh?" Scott said to Martin then aside to his brother. "Sure, Virg. Never better."

He tried to prove it by briskly following Martin up the ladder only he stumbled as he came above ground and Martin had to steady him. Virgil came next and they waited while Martin closed the metal plate. They were in a greenhouse full of vegetables growing luxuriantly in the warmth and humidity, the plants reaching up as far as the white-washed glass allowed.

"Our little home garden. It provides a passive heat source for our other project."

Martin pushed back the tendrils of climbing beans and drew open a door that led into the old building proper, immediately enveloping them in the pungent aroma of pine. Scott was surprised to see chickens. Or more correctly, chicks. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them, in pens of sawdust, each with an artificial light and a heat source that the tiny yellow birds sheltered under. Scott stopped to look. The noise of the high-pitched _cheeps_ was loud in the large brick room. Virgil reached out his hand and the little creatures parted like a moving carpet, their cheeping rising in pitch at the disturbance.

"It's our 'Pullets for Protein' Project in Africa," Martin explained. "See. No drugs. We grow protein not pot. This would be the heat source your brother picked up. We raise these chicks to point-of-lay and give them to poor families so they can have eggs. For a few cents a day, a child can have all the protein they need so they can grow and develop normally. Without it they have all sorts of problems as they get older. You'd think in this modern age, such a simple thing would be possible for all people on this planet, but not so. In our western societies, too much protein kills us, yet these kids die from a lack."

Martin looked like he was going to give them a lecture. In the end he just shook his head, adjusted his glasses with a shrug of his shoulder then took them to the far end into a room where there was a sink, chairs and food preparation area.

"No-one should disturb us here. We can talk." Martin looked at Scott as Scott slumped into one comfortable armchair, glad to do so and Virgil sat in the chair next to him. Scott pulled at what he was wearing.

"Any chance of something decent? I look ridiculous."

"Martin," Virgil said. "Scott needs something to eat. To drink, at the very least."

"Yeah, sure. We can dash upstairs and grab some duds of mine. Should fit. While you're dressing, I'll rustle up something."

Martin went to the door, waiting for Virgil, and Virgil leaned down to whisper, "Scott. We have to talk."

"I can't go back. Not until this is resolved. I'll hear this guy out."

Scott watched his brother walk stiffly away to follow after Martin but he was unrepentant. His original gut feeling held. He didn't excel in his line of work by hard work and knowledge alone. Intuition helped him divine the unknown. He believed the shopkeeper was amenable to reason and he was going to pursue it all the way. What awaited him back at the hospital was no worse than being here. At least here he had a chance, even if it was a slim one, to sort out this mess.

In under ten minutes they were changed men. Quite literally. Scott wore jeans and a shirt and Virgil had on sweats and a t-shirt. The only thing that didn't fit were shoes, so they padded about in bare feet. Martin gave them coffee, biscuits and made them toast with jam. Even Scott ate the toast.

When they'd finished with the small talk and refreshments, Martin sat down in front of them, clearing his throat. Just as he was about to start, Deirdre ran in through the back door, quite out of breath, and Martin stood up quickly.

"So, you've come back here? I thought you might," Deirdre said.

"They let you go?"

"Got the sack."

"Were you followed?"

"Don't think so."

"You can bet you were," Scott said. "Our people won't give up easily."

"I would've lost them underground."

"All going to plan, then," Virgil said sourly.

"This wasn't the plan," Deirdre snapped. "Scott, you weren't meant to run off like that. What were you thinking? The plan was to meet in the dining room, that's all. You two had a choice. You weren't forced. Even the security people saw that. You can thank your brother John for putting the guards on us. He was the one who raised the alarm."

"That's his job," Scott said. "So, you know this guy. I thought so."

"Dee's my cousin," Martin said. "But she was only meant to bring you down to see me at the hospital dining room. She doesn't quite approve."

"And I regret what I have done, cousin. This has gone all wrong. You're getting in way over your head. These two belong to a powerful family. Wise-up, Martin. You can never tell what these people'll do."

Scott grinned. "You should be okay so long as we're alive."

"You told me what your dad'll do if you didn't come back from that meeting."

"Let's have this talk and get back before they call out the national guard," Virgil said curtly.

"You can't," Deirdre said. "At least Scott can't. The police have issued a warrant for your arrest."

Virgil groaned loudly.

"Okay. Let's talk business. First," Scott said.

* * *

"This is where it ends, Gordo," John said. The laneway was familiar. It was the same place where Martin had disappeared the other day. "The cab dropped them off here. Parker lost the nurse around this place. And this is where Martin waited for me to take my picture. There must be something here."

The two brothers stalked the length and breadth of the thirty-foot alley. There was not a lot to see. Mainly the back end of businesses with their skiffs overflowing with rubbish, graffitied walls, old signs greying into the surrounding brickwork. A cat wound itself around a pole then scooted off when John approached where papers eddied in a whirlwind. There were back entrances to shops, littered with cardboard boxes and assorted refuse, and barred with steel doors that were padlocked from the inside.

"Doesn't look like they're used," John said. When he didn't get a reply, he turned to see Gordon had his hand pressed to his injured face. He put his hand on Gordon's shoulder. "You sure you're okay to do this? Been a tough few days."

"Yeah, yeah, I can do it. Comes in flashes, that's all. I have to do this. There's something I need to make up for."

John tended to agree. Maybe they all had something to prove this time around. _When the old nag of life throws you…_

"Here." John took off his sunglasses and gave them to him. "Might help with the glare."

John scoured along the upper levels for some other way out of the alley, a fire escape, something, anything. He remembered Martin had disappeared quickly. There had to be some easy way. When he looked back, Gordon was staring fixedly at the ground.

"You right, Squirt?"

Gordon walked forward to the manhole cover and lifted it.

* * *

"Come on, Martin. Out with it. What do you want?" Scott asked, more with a sigh than with any sign of aggression. "My patience isn't the best. What do you want me to do?"

Virgil wasn't sure who to watch. Martin as he sat expectantly at the table, or Scott as he fidgeted, the lines on his face deepening.

"I want you to convince your father to pull out of the Nebivian contract. That's all I ask," Martin said to Scott.

Deirdre got up suddenly from the chair near the door. "I'll be in the shop if you need me."

Three pairs of eyes followed her exit.

"She doesn't approve of any of this," Martin told them. "She certainly won't believe you're International Rescue. She laughs when I say I have a piece of your equipment. She thinks I'm quite deluded."

"That's probably good," Virgil said impatiently. "Which contract?"

"The Nebivian contract."

Scott showed surprise. "Is that all?"

"Not so fast, big brother," Virgil whispered then said to Martin. "Which contract exactly are you talking about?"

"Members of the World Free-Trade Alliance have agreed to build a national defence system for the Nebivian government in return for access to its domestic markets. Tracy Corporation has been contracted by the Alliance to oversee the project. You may or may not be aware but the Nebivian government has been accused of human rights violations and has been provoking their African neighbours with threats of invasion.

"We believe any entry into Nebivia by western groups will have serious implications for domestic tensions but also for broader tensions in the African region. Particularly if Nebivia has a sophisticated weapons defence system. We believe the Nebivian people will suffer if this project goes ahead. We've been working in Nebivia, you see. Things were just starting to improve but then…this project. It's been our experience that big multinationals moving in are trouble for the local people. Destroys their economy, their social structure. They employ people, yes, some, but the companies take out of these countries far more than what they put back in. I could give the statistics of how many people will die—"

"Look. Martin," Scott interrupted. "Okay. I hear what you're saying. We're not exactly enemies, here. We apply our technologies for peaceful purposes. We don't get involved in national politics or even international politics. You know what we're about."

"Yes, but your company participates by default in building these new technologies. Now's not the time to debate it. I understand. And I agree Tracy Corp has a good reputation. I'm only asking you to pull out of this one project, that's all, so it won't destroy our work. I could ask for more but I'm not. Just the one."

"Pull out of the one project," Scott repeated. "Maybe we could work something out."

"I'm sure you've heard of non-supply clauses," Virgil said aside to him. "These contracts have stiff default clauses."

"I'm listening, okay Virg. Let's see if there's any way we can work this. All right, Martin. I want to hear how you can help me."

"I saw the accident. I saw what happened. Amber deliberately rode out in front of you."

It wasn't the statement Virgil expected to hear and, if Scott's expression was anything to go by, neither was Scott. The shock showed on his face. He stared at Martin.

"Why…did she do that?" he said.

"To get your attention."

"My attention? You mean Tracy Corp attention?"

Martin nodded.

"Hell of a way to do it."

Virgil couldn't keep quiet. "You used an eighteen-year-old girl to make a political statement?"

"That's not what we intended."

"But you were there to cause an accident. Get media attention. Get _our_ attention."

"No. Not like that. There was a group of People members. Yes. We were there to think up a way to stop you when you came from the airport. Amber knew you were coming in to visit Tracy Corp headquarters in the morning. She knew what car you'd be driving. We were trying to figure out a way to get your attention but not like that. Sort of a protest, you know. We were looking for the best place to stage it."

"We came in earlier. You had no idea we'd come back at that time."

"That's right. I don't know what happened." Martin rubbed his forehead. "Amber comes into the shop regularly and she seems interested in our literature. Someone must have told her about the meet, about what we were trying to do. She must have thought she could help. I don't know. Anyway, we were standing in a doorway. Out of the rain. Discussing, you know. The best way. Then Amber suddenly yells that she sees your car. Before any of us knew it, she jumps on her scooter and rides out in front of you. I didn't know she was going to do that. It certainly wasn't anything we'd even mentioned."

Scott covered his face with his good hand, his fingers pressed into his closed eyelids. Virgil could see sweat building across the bridge of his nose as he nursed his injured arm close to his body and eased in the chair, giving Virgil the impression he was uncomfortable. Virgil took over the conversation.

"Let me ask the blasted obvious. Just in case I've missed something. Why didn't you approach Tracy Corp more directly? Have you tried the front door?"

"Tried and failed so many times. Your CEO is unapproachable."

"That's not our policy. Did you try higher? Approaching Head Office? Or our father directly?"

Martin grimaced and shook his head. "People like us can't get to people like yourselves. You live on a different planet. Your father would never see a minutia of the material your Corporations handle. Somehow getting you to stop when you were coming from the airport was the only way we could think to get Tracy Corp's attention."

Scott remained quiet, his hand over his face.

"And now that you have an opportunity, you intend to milk it," Virgil said.

"I have to. It's the only way we see our project will survive. You convince Tracy Corp to withdraw from the Nebivian contract and I'll do all I can to get you off the hook. I'll say Amber ran out in front of you. I'll withdraw all the allegations against you and your Corporation, and I'll make a full public apology."

"Decent of you," Virgil scoffed.

"I know, I feel awful but this is our chance to make a difference. It's reality. It's the only way we can. It's a question of opportunity."

"What about the com-watch?" Scott said.

"That's a different matter."

"Of course," Virgil said. "Here it comes. The catch."

"Well, actually. If it wasn't for the fact that someone else's interested in it. I might have let it go back to you cheaply."

Both Tracys sat up straighter.

"Who's interested?" Scott asked.

"An American. He came in to the shop earlier this afternoon. Offered me an amazing amount of money for it. Straight off the cuff. You have to understand, I don't even have this year's operating budget. What we do is expensive. Fund-raising takes most of my time."

"And someone just offered it to you."

"And a whole lot more. I told him I would give the owners first bid on it. If you didn't want it, then I'd consider his offer."

"What's your budget?" Scott said.

"I'm seventy-five thousand Australian dollars short. That buys my silence and a full retraction of the website. I could ask a lot more than that."

"Scott," Virgil whispered warningly. "Don't…"

"I want to see it. The watch. Show it to me."

They stopped talking when Deirdre came in.

"Sorry to interrupt. Some guy in the shop. Says he was here, earlier. He wants to speak to you, Martin. Urgently."

Martin stood up. "He's impatient. I told him to come back tomorrow."

* * *

Gordon trudged along one avenue of the labyrinth that was the old sewer. The walk was easy but he seemed to be wasting time going up and down looking for some sign of where the Langley character had taken Scott and Virgil. It certainly didn't help his headache.

"Where to, John? Give me a clue." He stared at his com-watch, waiting for John to come back into the visual field. "It goes everyplace."

John had dashed back to Tracy Corp to look up a map of the underground thoroughfare. Gordon gave his brother credit for at least offering to go in his place but, given the state of his head, he knew John would be quicker.

"Hang on. I'm getting something." Gordon could hear him typing at breakneck speed.

"How far away is Dad?"

"Less than an hour. They've taken off from Bonga."

"Any news from Penelope?"

"All's quiet at the People's store. They haven't gone there. They must be some place else."

* * *

Back underneath the Co-operative shop, Scott and Virgil stood up with Martin.

"I want to see this guy," Scott said. "Any way up top without being seen?"

Martin scratched his eyebrow. "Not really. The stairs come up just beyond the shop proper. The shop'll be closing soon, so there won't be too many people about. If you just stood near the stairwell, I guess you might catch a glimpse. Want to eyeball your opponent, hey?"

"Always helps to know who we're up against," Scott said, and Virgil knew he'd be thinking of that anonymous character they nicknamed the Hood, who had been something of their Achilles heel.

They were almost to the stairs to go upstairs when the smoke detector went off with ear-piercing brilliance back down where they'd been. Martin stopped and groaned.

"Not again. It happens all the time, particularly after a new load of sawdust. The chicks scratch the stuff together under the heat lamps and it gets hot. That and the dust they make. It smokes."

Virgil sniffed the air. "Smells more than hot."

After attending every sort of fire, he'd developed a nose for what was burning. Scott had already turned back for the way they'd come and Virgil went with him.

"It's usually nothing," Martin said behind them. "A bit of smoke."

All three ran back to the chicken house. The alarm carried on above them, making them wince. It was a lot more than nothing. In the far end stall, flames erupted from the sawdust in an explosive puff. Hundreds of little chicks streamed away from the heat source, their high-pitched alarm call almost as piercing as the smoke detector. Smoke in tornado grey funnelled to the roof to disappear into a ceiling fan, the flame following.

"Turn off that exhaust," Scott ordered Martin. "Before it crowns in the structure." He indicated the ceiling where the smoke disappeared and barely waited to see if Martin obeyed. His good hand reached for a heavy extinguisher on the wall near the lunch room. Virgil was astonished to see Deirdre already in the stall, using a tea towel to beat at the flames.

"Stop her, Virg. She's spreading it."

Virgil dashed down the centre aisle and vaulted up into the stall. Chicks screamed as they ran from this new intruder.

"Deirdre. Stop!"

Deirdre grunted as she hit at the fire with the rectangular piece of material. She didn't appear to hear him. Her movements, the breeze of her actions made the fire around her rear up and separate into sparking tongues that ignited more sawdust. The air seemed alive with lobes of fire. It surrounded her, settling on her arms, in her hair. The exhaust stopped and the smoke no longer had a way of escape. It hit the roof then swirled around them in a disgruntled manner.

Virgil grabbed her around the waist and she startled. "Back! You'll get burned."

Virgil hauled her to the side, feeling the pressure in his abdomen, then kicked untouched sawdust from the reach of the flames. Scott jostled past him with the extinguisher, replacing Deirdre at the fire front.

"The chicks!" Deirdre yelled at Virgil.

He threw open the gate and they herded the tiny creatures from the pen just as Martin sprinted to help. Virgil heard the burst of the extinguisher behind him. Deirdre shouted and something made Virgil look back. He would never forget what he saw. Scott sat on the floor of the pen with the tank of the extinguisher held between his knees. His good hand was on the trigger and he had pushed the nozzle into the apparatus of his injured arm in an attempt to hold it only he wasn't able to aim the nozzle as he needed. The fire seemed to rear around him, mocking his feeble attempts to quell it. Scott ducked as a lick of fire went for his face.

Virgil pushed Deirdre out of the pen into the central corridor and he leapt back to take the extinguisher from Scott.

"I can't…" Scott yelled at him, his expression one of despair. "…hold it."

"Got it. Got it. Get out."

Virgil encouraged Scott to scurry to safety on his hand and knees before he lifted the extinguisher and doused the flames, careful not to blast the sawdust directly to prevent it flying about like Deirdre had done.

It took many minutes of extinguisher work to be satisfied he'd got it all. Fire in sawdust is tricky. It tends to burrow into the material and spit new life in the dust. By that time the smoke was thick and Virgil needed to cover his face with the sleeve of the t-shirt to stop from choking.

When the fire was out, he jumped down out of the pen to lean with Scott against the open door of the hothouse and take in some fresh air. Scott was examining Deirdre's arm.

"Martin," Scott breathed heavily and coughed. "Check the exhaust. For fire up there."

"It goes outside. I'll look."

"Virgil. Deirdre's burnt her arm. Tend to it. Needs someone with two hands. I'll black down." He didn't look at his brother as he handed Deirdre over to him and wearily went outside after Martin.

"It's not so bad," Deirdre said a little shakily. Virgil grinned at her. She was flecked with soot, her shirt ruined by burn holes and her hair singed in places. He took her around the shoulders and steered her towards the lunchroom where the smoke had not yet settled.

"Second-degree. And you're going to feel it soon."

Virgil hesitated only to knock the alarm off the wall. The quiet was sudden and strange.

"Oh, I don't know." She sniffed and wiped her hand across her face, smudging black across her cheeks.

"Oh, I do," he reassured her. "It's already red and blistered and see those tiny yellow bits."

She looked at him strangely and tried to snatch her arm back from his hold. "How would you know?"

"Because I'm a fully qualified EMT. A paramedic over here I guess would be the equivalent." He took her over to the sink and turned the cold tap on. He pushed her arm under the water, standing against her to hold her arm, his other arm around her shoulder in case she flaked on him. She winced only slightly as she seemed to have something else on her mind.

"You knew what to do. You both did. It came automatically. How? Why are you a—" Her eyes widened. She stared at him. "You are International Rescue. Aren't you? What Martin said? About the watch? It's true, isn't it?"

"Best not confirm it. We have a joke about having to kill those who find out."

Her head turned to look out the doorway. Virgil made sure her arm stayed under the flow of water and brushed at ash that lingered on the skin of her forearm.

"He was telling you what to do. So, he's International Rescue? _He_ goes on rescues?"

"He's our team leader."

"He's _in charge_?" The thought seemed to repel her.

Virgil raised his eyebrows. "Remember what I told you about not making judgements."

"What's his problem?"

"Filling too many body bags this week would basically cover it. If you think back in the news of what's happened this week. Scott's been to all of it. Then he had to make a choice between the life of Gordon and the lives of five people, one of them a young boy. Your friend running out in front of us kind of capped off a very, very bad day."

"Mercy. I –I had no idea. Gordon?"

"The earthquake in Korea. Gordon was about to get survivors out. Then an aftershock hit and Scott pulled him back just as the structure gave out. Gordon is here. Not the others."

She pressed her palm to her forehead and left it there as if what he was telling her was beyond her comprehension. "Gordon's in International Rescue?"

"You know what we were doing, going to the airport? We were responding to the emergency call from Caroaka Island. Mudslide in the highlands. We couldn't go. We couldn't help because two of us were in hospital and Scott lost the com-watch. In the field, we can't communicate without those watches."

Virgil was talking on too much, he knew, but he believed he needed an ally. Not so much against Martin, against Scott. His brother's announcement about not going back had rocked him. Scott was about to find out the watch has been switched and no-one has told him. How will he react? He'd stayed quiet at their father's request and Virgil reckoned there would be a price to pay.

She stared at him as he spoke. The focus of her eyes varied as he could see her processing the information.

"I am so, so sorry. This is such a mess." She sagged against him slightly and Virgil wondered if he'd said too much.

"Here, sit down." He hooked a chair with his hand and slid it over without letting her go.

"It's okay. I'm okay. It's just that—"

"Sit." He pushed her into the seat then turned off the water. She sat passively, staring at the floor. "Do you have a first-aid kit? Anything to put on your arm? Sterile bandage?"

"This is terrible. I feel so awful. I had no idea. I really didn't."

"Deirdre. First-aid kit?"

"Oh, uh, the only thing is the aloe vera plant on the sink there." She pointed to a plant in an ice cream container, which looked like a cactus with green rubbery leaves that had spines along the edge. He looked at it sceptically.

Virgil smeared the substance on her arm and he had to admit it felt cool, certainly not nasty. As he examined the inert jelly substance, Martin leaned in the doorway, holding the door open.

"Checked the exhaust. No fire. Your brother said to turn it on to get rid of the smoke. Should be about clear."

Virgil nodded.

"Did you see that American guy?" Deirdre asked.

"Gone, thankfully. Upstairs told him I was in a meeting. He said he'd come back at a more convenient time."

"Marty. Stop all this. These guys don't deserve this. What you're doing is wrong. Don't be a caffler. Give that watch back."

"I can't, cousin. Think of the people in Africa."

"Please, I beg you. Before things gets worse."

Martin bowed his head then turned to leave.

"Martin," she yelled as he walked from the room. "Martin James Langley. Don't you dare! Martin!"

She tried unsuccessfully to pull from Virgil's grasp. She snorted with frustration when Martin disappeared down the corridor and she muttered something unintelligible to Virgil.

"There you go," he said when he finally gave her back the use of her arm. "Now, I can sense a storm brewing." He indicated out the door with his head. "I think I need your help. Scott couldn't handle the extinguisher. He won't like it. We'd better go find him before..." He left the rest of the sentence hang.

Virgil found Scott sitting on the floor of the central aisle, his long legs spread to stop the chicks from running all over the ground floor. His back was to them, both his arms drawn up as if he was holding something.

The door was open to the greenhouse. Virgil saw that Scott had used a shovel to push the burnt material out into the hothouse and used a hose to water it and the pen down. The place smelt wet and charred. At least the smoke had cleared.

Virgil brushed ash from his brother's shoulders and squatted beside him. Then Virgil saw what Scott cradled in his good hand.

"What have you got there?" Virgil whispered.

"They're perfect."

Virgil could see the chicks Scott held had died. Their eyes were open but unfocussed, their beaks open, their head bent back and limp.

"I'm sorry, bro."

"They're untouched but they're..." Scott stared at the chicks.

Deirdre picked up a compost bucket and put it down in front of him. "We put the dead ones in here so at least they're useful for something. You know, recycled. Not wasted."

Scott held them tighter into his body as he spoke to his brother. "You're right, Virgil. This is going to send me crazy. I have to let go. Those people in Korea. We need to do something."

"We do. Why don't we?" Virgil looked at Deirdre. "We have to do something and it'll sound weird."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

John could barely contain his excitement. He'd called up council plans of the shop property to overlay on the sewer system schematic.

"Gordon. That sewer runs right under the store. According to the plan there's a manhole right at the back entrance. Go back and check it out."

"FAB. I'm at the corner of Jackson and Fifth. Guide me, will you?"

John was doing that when he heard the sound of voices behind him. Alan and his father descended on him like jackals on a carcass, trying to extract every piece of information from him. Alan was most concerned about Gordon, Jeff about the disappearance of his eldest two. At least, this latest discovery was good news.

"Gordo," Alan yelled into the mike. "How goes it? I hear you got busted."

Alan was upbeat while Gordon sounded all business. "I could use some help down here."

"Right with you, bro. Give me five." Alan ran for the bedroom, peeling off clothes as he went.

"Dad, it's still possible Scott and Virgil are at the People's store," John said then explained what he'd found. "Maybe we should get in there and have a look around – before the police."

Before Jeff could respond Penelope radioed in. "Jeff. Scott and Virgil are at the shop. Repeat. They are at the shop. They appear okay. They do not appear under duress. _Not_ under duress. I will confirm the details as I can."

"What are they doing?" John said. "Why haven't we heard from them?"

Jeff let out a long breath and rested his chin on his chest for a moment. "Good news. Hold your position, Penny. Let's not complicate matters until we know for sure what's going on." Jeff turned to John. "Okay. Let's see what Gordon and Alan find. Then bring Gordon back. I want Brains to look at his face. What about Hubert?"

"The security guards had him. They wanted to involve the police but I told them to release him. I said Gordon provoked him. Which is true when you think what would happen if anyone mentioned a Tracy name within his hearing. I thought it'd be detrimental to Amber if there was no-one to visit her." John felt his father's hand squeeze his shoulder.

"It's time I had it out with our former chief engineer. Won't take long. Keep me informed. I want to know exactly what's going on. Oh, and John. Good work with that woman, this afternoon. I was graphically reminded what a difficult job you boys do."

Jeff was headed for ICU when Ms Gleeson intercepted him, her face as red as her outfit.

"Mr Tracy. As head of Tracy Corporation in this country, I can no longer tolerate your son's involvement in these sordid activities. I have a responsibility to the shareholders. You must circulate a disclaimer to disown him. We are being put at risk and I can not stand by and see this happen. I will not."

"Right," Jeff said. "Then I accept your resignation. Tell the board to convene to vote on a new head. One thing I've learned in this business, Ms Gleeson, is that if any entity, large or small, overlooks the human element it's doomed to failure. Never get between me and my family. That's something I won't tolerate."

He turned and left her standing in shock. He went straight up to ICU, waited for the key-pad operated door to open as a couple exited then slid in before it closed. While Hubert visited his daughter, Jeff stood behind him and angled so Hubert's back kept him from Amber's view. He listened for a moment to their conversation.

"Where's Gordon?" Amber asked her father. "He said he'd come back this afternoon. He said he would."

Hubert still sounded angry. "These young boys. Never trust them. I'm here, my precious. I look after you. I'm who you need."

"He knows what this is like. He really knows. He said he got through because his family never gave up on him. He said I would, too, if I believed and never gave up. He said he would help me. He promised."

"Don't think about that one. He won't be back to trouble us."

Jeff saw Amber bite at her trembling lip and he stepped forward. "Why don't you tell your daughter what happened, Hubert?"

Hubert whipped around. "How dare you."

"Mr Tracy!" Amber gasped then started to cry. "I'm so sorry, Mr Tracy, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to do it, I didn't mean to hurt them." Jeff went around to her. "I don't know what came over me. I just wanted to stop the car. I was thinking if your sons could just talk to Martin. I knew what Ms Gleeson's attitude would be if she found out. If only they would listen. And…I don't know…I ran out in front of them. It happened so quickly. The car was – going much faster than I – I didn't think what I was doing."

"What is this nonsense? What has that boy been saying?" Hubert said.

"It's my fault. I ran out. I made them crash. I ran into them."

"I don't believe! Spreading lies. Get out!" Hubert's voice was loud in confined space, which made one of the nursing staff come over to quieten him.

Jeff ignored Hubert's outburst and shushed her. "Gordon is one of my sons."

"In the car?" Amber said.

"They're fine, don't you worry. The important thing is you get well. Gordon had every intention of coming back, isn't that right, Hubert?"

Hubert glowered at him.

"Your father doesn't want Gordon to come back," Jeff said.

"But I like Gordon. He's really nice. He makes me laugh. Why can't he come?"

Hubert shook his head and Jeff flinched at the daughter's stricken expression.

"Your father and I are about to put our heads together to get you on your feet again. How does that sound?"

Her eyes widened. "You're going to help me? Mr Tracy, I don't deserve it."

Jeff patted her shoulder, his steely voice deeper than ever. "Amber. I consider you and your father part of our family. Family sticks together where I come from." He raised his hand to Hubert. "How about we go and discuss Amber's care? We've tired your daughter out enough for one day. What do you say? Come on, Hubert. Let's work together – for Amber's sake."

* * *

Gordon was relieved when Alan found him deep beneath Jackson Street.

"You okay? Man, that's amazing. Does it hurt much?"

"Not too bad."

"After we do this, Dad wants you to get back so Brains can have a look at you. We'd better work-out when we get home. Make sure that doesn't happen again."

Gordon raised the com-watch to his lips as he retraced his steps. "How are we doing?"

"Another block," John said.

Gordon focused on Alan. "How was it?"

"Messy but a piece of cake. Dad came. He broke his own rule. On the first job. Can you believe it? We did an extraction. It shook him up, I think, and he asked me about Scott. I told him a thing or two."

"I hope that helps Scott," Gordon said.

"Would you want to go without him? To the tough stuff, I mean. Even if he was drunk."

"He is never ever drunk, Al."

"I know, I know. I'm just saying I would, that's all."

"You're there," John warned them through Gordon's watch. "Concentrate. I can hear what you're saying. Walls have ears. Not in Five. Friendly warning, here."

"Yeah, yeah, John," Alan responded sharply. "Message understood."

"You'll sleep on the damn floor, kid."

Gordon and Alan winced when they heard Grandma admonish their older brother in the background.

"Alan and Gordon to John. Out." Alan cut the link on Gordon's watch and they grinned together.

"We'd better take a look," Gordon said, sensibly.

They both gazed skywards at the metal cover.

"I'll go," Alan volunteered. "Wouldn't want someone to take your head off completely."

He'd no sooner put his hands on the metal ladder than they heard voices above them then the scrape of metal from the cover. Alan ran, grabbing a handful of Gordon's shirt as he passed. Gordon was slower but Alan pulled him along as they heard someone climb down the ladder.

"Stop," Gordon said in his brother's ear. "They'll hear us."

There were no side alleys, no pockets to press themselves into. The only avenue of escape, apart from to keep on running, was to merge themselves into the side walls and hope they weren't seen. They spread themselves along the floor and pressed up against the brickwork, Alan ducking behind Gordon's feet.

Gordon watched one figure climb half-way down first then reach up to take something round and flat that was handed down. Then two figures came down afterwards while one remained above the grate to cast a shadow over those in the tunnel. Gordon held his breath while he waited to see what they were going to do. All three bent down in a circle.

"Do you want to say something?" A rich voice floated down on the air currents.

"Virgil?" Alan whispered.

Gordon waved him quiet with his hand. Gordon could tell who it was by the way they moved. When Virgil and Scott stood upright, they stood in the meagre light left by the open grate. Their features were recognisable. When they bent down they tended to blend with the shadows at floor level.

Deirdre lit a tiny candle and put it on the plate then Scott reached forward to unload something from his hand around the candle.

"May your journey be long and peaceful," Scott said.

All three pushed the object into the swirl of the water in the central culvert and watched the object float away from them. Gordon looked at the tiny vessel as it floated closer to him with a sense of growing unease, and he heard Alan mutter something behind him.

Would the light from the candle expose them? Should they just stand up and call out to their brothers? Did the person watching from the manhole have a weapon? Someone with a gun? What the heck were they doing, anyway?

Gordon's dilemma eased when the three went back up the ladder and the manhole cover closed over the halo of light. Gordon and Alan watched without comment as the object came towards them and they didn't speak until the paper plate had passed them.

"Dead baby chickens. Gross." Alan said. "What are they doing?"

Gordon sat up. "I'm not sure. Maybe they're saying goodbye."

"What's that?"

"Scott and Virgil do it at home, sometimes. Kyrano's idea. They see off the spirits of those who have died on a rescue by putting candles in the ocean. A respect thing."

"Don't you think this is a bit strange?"

"Maybe."

"So, what do we tell Dad? They're conducting a funeral?"

Gordon was perplexed yet moved by the gesture. "I don't know, Al. Maybe. Maybe this is about those people in Korea. Look, there's five chicks." He got up and scampered off after the funeral pyre.

"Hey, wait up. Where are you going?"

* * *

Almost as soon as Martin handed him the com-watch, Scott knew something was wrong. He weighed the com-watch in his left hand, turning it over in his fingers to press a few buttons and he was not surprised when nothing happened. John or Brains would have taken it off their communication loop immediately after the theft. Still, it wasn't the watch that had been stolen from him. Martin had snatched Virgil's watch from him, not this one.

He looked up at the three faces that were waiting for his response. They had gone upstairs into the shop once it had closed and after they had cleaned themselves and downstairs after the fire. Scott sat on the counter, his legs hanging freely over the side, while Virgil leaned on the cabinet behind the counter with his arms folded and Deirdre was next to him, worry lines etched across her face.

So, whose idea was this? Martin stood next to the open door of the safe where it had been kept. An old combination safe. Martin looked at his acquisition with a certain amount of pride. Scott took his gaze to Virgil. Virgil ducked his head, his quick shift in focus not lost on Scott.

Scott had his answer.

"Well, this is certainly _my_ watch," Scott said from between his clenched jaw. "Nice to have _my_ watch back."

At least a modified version of it Scott was certain if Brains had anything to do with the switch, no important circuitry would be left in place. He glanced around at the primitive facilities in the old store. Child's play for Parker and Penelope.

Scott felt a number of things at that moment. He was suddenly aware of how much his injured arm hurt. The pain level had increased during the day and he realised that the intensity had about reached the ceiling of his tolerance. It made him feel rubbery and ill.

Pain was a good thing, right? Didn't that mean his arm was getting better? At least he could feel down the entire length of his forearm. He wasn't sure about his hand but he certainly knew it was there.

He felt a barb settle into his chest, which made breathing just a little more effort. Virgil knew the watch had been switched, Scott could tell by looking at him. Scott had given his brother an opportunity to tell him. He'd asked a direct question, for crying out loud. Virgil's words 'leave it to the authorities' and 'unnecessary' suddenly made sense.

_Virgil knew and he didn't tell me_.

At that moment, Scott felt a complete and utter fool. How stupid was he for thinking that he could in some way fix this mess? So, why didn't his brothers tell him what they were doing? They'd been ordered not to, he bet. To protect him. To spare him the worry. While any of this was outstanding, he would worry. He couldn't help worry. He'd been trained to carry a full load of responsibility since the first decade of his life. He didn't know any other way to approach it. Surely his father understood him better than that. Scott felt responsible for all this and he needed to make it right, to do his job, his duty. It was the mature and honourable thing to do and he would not hesitate to do it. No matter the cost to him.

Scott handed the watch back to Martin. "I'll give you what you want for it. As soon as I can arrange it."

Martin clutched the watch in his fingers in celebration.

A confused look crossed Virgil's face. "You sure?"

"No need to come out of TC funds. I'll take it out of my own," Scott told Martin and held out his hand. "Where's your cell? I'll make that call."

* * *

John was about ready to throttle his two younger brothers. They hadn't reported in since finding the shop and now he was tracking Gordon back along the sewer only his younger brother wasn't going back to the entry point. He was headed east. Towards the sea.

"John to Gordon. Respond, please."

No answer. He'd tried a number of times during the last few minutes and received no response. He tried Alan. Just as his patience was red-lining, his youngest brother picked up.

"Hey, John. How are you?"

John nearly exploded. If it wasn't for his grandmother investigating the kitchen off to his right he would have let fly. "How am _I_? What the hell do you guys think you're doing?"

"Under control here. I'm about to go top-side."

"What's Gordon doing?"

Alan hesitated. "Do you really want to know?"

"Want to know? Why would I want to know? I'm just asking to pass the time." His voice was so laden with sarcasm Grandma stood up and eyed him.

"Look. Scott and Virgil are okay. Barring – um- a little strange behaviour. So, chill. We've seen them. They are at the Co-op store."

"I repeat. What is Gordon doing? He's off course."

"We're –um- we're –ah-. Look, Gordon's having a little moment down here. Three minutes, huh. Give us a few minutes, okay?"

"Is he all right? Is it his head? I'll send help."

"Not so much his head. I don't know if I can explain."

"Could you damn well try? Just tell me and let me figure it."

Alan explained what he'd seen Scott and Virgil do. "Gordon's –um- just making sure the – whatever it is – keeps going. In the water. You know what he's like around water. Does that make sense to you or have I missed something?"

John sat back heavily in his chair and rubbed his face with his hands. "Don't even try, Al."

He was so distracted by Alan's revelation he picked up his phone and answered it before he realised he'd done it.

"Be quick, I'm busy," he muttered, still trying to get his head around what Alan had told him.

"Where's Dad? His cell's going to answer. I need to—"

John leapt from his seat. "Scott! What the _fuck_? Are you all right? Where are you?"

Beside him, Grandma took a sharp and loud intake of air.

"Careful," Scott said. "You'll give Grandma a coronary."

"It's bedlam. We're looking for you. Is Virgil okay?"

"Don't pull that shit, John. You know exactly where we are. I saw our dynamic duo down the sewer. Put me through to Dad. It's urgent. I can't get through on his cell."

John didn't like the way Scott sounded distant and edgy. "He's at the hospital. He may not be able to take calls."

"You contact him by the comm. You tell him this for me. If he wants me as his son, he'll call me and he'd better be prepared to listen to what I want to say, this time. I want Tracy Corp to look at pulling out of the Nebivian contract. Okay? You got that. You get him to call me. I know you have this number. And hurry it up."

Scott cut the connection in his ear.

_Holy shit_.

After reassuring the others in the penthouse that Scott and Virgil were okay, he took off for the hospital at a dead run. He wasn't going to wait for his father to get back. Scott sounded too strange and abrupt to ignore. Something was brewing and he bet he knew what it was.

He found his father in the hospital coffee shop with Hubert. He had to admire his father. That was quick work. John ran to their table, quite out of breath.

"Forgive me for intruding." John struggled to get out the words. "I need – to speak to you, Dad. Super urgent."

Jeff made his apologies and John took him into the corridor out of Hubert's earshot.

"We've found Scott and Virgil," John blurted. "They're safe. Um – Scott wants to talk to you. Wants – asks – no demands." John repeated exactly what Scott had told him. His father's expression of relief was cut short. Frown lines ploughed his forehead.

"What Scott wants is not possible," his father said. "We pull out of that contract without sufficient cause and Tracy Corp will be sued from here to eternity. Blackmail is not one of them last time I looked. It'd break us. It'd bring down Tracy Corp and International Rescue. It can't be done."

John solemnly handed him his own phone, which Jeff took with a sigh. Before he could punch in Scott's number, their watches simultaneously rang the emergency signal.

"Jeff, this is Penelope." She sounded tense, her gaze barely keeping to the dial of the watch in front of her. "A van has pulled up outside the People's shop. Two armed men are at this moment entering the building. Shots have been fired. We need help here, Jeff. Urgently."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

The inhabitants of the shop barely had time to breathe between the sound of the first gunshot into the lock of the door and the front being kicked in. Virgil heard the flash of fire almost at the same time a man in khakis appeared in the doorway, a large hand gun aimed at them.

Scott was the only one who reacted, perhaps out of training. He rolled like a cat to flatten out onto his stomach across the counter to face the danger. Deirdre didn't even have time to scream.

Virgil immediately knew they were in trouble. The man strode into the shop, no attempt to disguise his appearance, the aim of the hand gun pointed fairly and squarely at Scott, a look of rare pleasure toying about the features of his face.

"Don't even think," the man barked. "Stay calm. Nobody move."

Another man, disguised by a balaclava, took up his position to guard the door. Virgil could see a white van with tinted windows had pulled up onto the footpath directly in front of the entrance. The armed man in the doorway used the vehicle as a shield when their fire was returned.

_Were there International Rescue agents out there? Gordon and Alan?_ Virgil knew they'd witnessed the parting ceremony. He'd seen them lying against the wall.

The man, sharp-featured and hard-shouldered, walked right up to Scott, and Virgil thought there was something vaguely familiar about him.

"Well, well, it is you. International Rescue's Field Commander. And, if I'm to believe Mr Langley's website, Scott Jefferson Tracy. This is, indeed, my lucky day. I came for the watch but I see I've scored the prize I was ultimately after. Rarely do things turn out easier than one expects. Stand up so I can look at you."

Virgil could see Scott almost squint as he searched the face of the intruder. "Mr Rutledge?"

"Commander Rutledge, if you please. Today, I take back what belongs to me. You remember me. Should I feel honoured? It was such a brief, earth-moving experience."

Virgil desperately tried to think of who he might be if Scott recognised him. Scott slid his legs over the front of the counter and eased onto the floor as he supported his injured arm, his good arm held out in a gesture that suggested bewilderment.

"Sir?"

Rutledge gave a mock laugh. "Nicholas Rutledge. One of the five you left at my feet in an impersonal blue bag. My son. Such a gift one doesn't easily forget."

Virgil saw his brother reach for the counter as support. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"We have a little catching up to do. Get better acquainted. You know, there hasn't been a moment in the last four days I haven't thought about you. Up straight, I said. I want a closer look at you. You look different without your uniform, without your badge of authority, which, if I may say, has become a little tarnished of late." Rutledge's gaze travelled over Scott's form. "Certainly dishevelled and rough-looking for the son of the billionaire. Still. Definitely the one I'm after."

Virgil could see Scott's face was contorted, from confusion or pain he couldn't tell.

"You over there. Bring me that watch," Commander Rutledge ordered Martin. Virgil took advantage of the gunman's distraction to pull Deirdre behind him to shield her but then he found he was being scrutinised by the gun. "You can't hide her, son. I can see what you're doing. Who are you?"

"Virgil, sir. Scott's brother."

"Ah, yes. Butter wouldn't melt. Both of you."

"I resent that, Commander," Scott said.

Commander Rutledge gave another little laugh. "You're challenging me? You will regret you set eyes on me, Tracy. You and I have unfinished business." Rutledge turned back to Martin. "You, with the watch. I won't ask again."

Martin edged past Virgil and came around the counter.

"I don't understand," Scott said. "Why all this?"

"From what I've observed, you make it a habit of destroying people. All the while being hailed as examples of public morality. All the while being showered with the adoration worthy of heroes. What has it been this week? Running down pedestrians. Refusing to rescue survivors. Children, a specialty. It must be a gift. But not anymore. I'm here to make sure of it. It seems our friend here." Rutledge indicated Martin with the twitch of his firearm. "Has the kind of community spirit I admire. You'll be glad to know you were impossibly difficult to trace. You have Langley to thank for your ultimate undoing. And not before time."

Scott's hand went to his face. Virgil could see he was struggling.

"Now. Simple thing. I want the watch and I want this one." He pointed to Scott. "I have no argument with the rest of you. No-one need be concerned. Stay calm and no-one will be hurt."

"This is not what we agreed," Martin said. "We agreed on the watch. I don't condone violence. Not this way."

'Then heed my warning. To me. This minute."

Martin looked anxiously at Scott for direction and Scott gave him a quick nod of approval. Martin handed the watch to Commander Rutledge then made a foolhardy move. He grabbed the gun or, at least, he tried to. There was a flash of a struggle and the gun went off. Deirdre screamed when Martin fell clutching his abdomen.

Just as Rutledge drew back to cover Martin with his weapon, Scott rugby-tackled him, sprawling him sideways, hitting down with his left hand across Rutledge's gun hand. Virgil saw Scott was at a disadvantage as his right arm took the force of body against body. And Rutledge was too nimble and much stronger. The point of his elbow caught Scott a full blow to the injured part of his face.

Scott dropped like a brick and didn't move.

Virgil grappled with Deirdre to stop her from running forward into the line of fire and shoved her down onto the floor. He had taken two steps when he looked up to see the gun aimed exactly between his eyes.

"One more step," Rutledge growled at him. The gunman at the doorway glanced in.

"Right, boss?"

"Yeah, yeah. Who's outside? Police?"

"Nah. Dunno."

Deirdre got up crying her cousin's name but Virgil held her back.

Commander Rutledge bent to feel the artery in Martin's neck. He shook his head. "This was unnecessary." He kept his distance as he carefully stepped around Scott. "Oldest trick, Tracy. I'm not fooled." Rutledge kicked Scott in the back and when Scott barely moved, Rutledge looked around as if deciding what to do. "Right you. Brother. You might be useful, yet. Drag him outside."

Virgil ran to his unconscious brother, reached for his pulse then rolled him onto his side.

"I didn't kill him," Rutledge said as he watched. "There's no need for any of this. You can be assured of your safety if you co-operate. What I want is rightfully mine. Plain and simple."

Deirdre went to run to Martin but Rutledge waved his gun in disapproval and she changed course for Scott.

"Not you. Get back," Rutledge ordered.

"I'm a nurse," she said. "You know your blow didn't put him down. Something's wrong. I can help."

"What's he to you?"

"Er – _sister_," she blurted, which made Virgil glance sharply at her.

Rutledge seemed genuinely amused. "Jefferson Tracy is American with five sons. No daughters."

"Shows you what you know. I'm Scott's sister, damn it."

"Okay, brother and _sister_. Take him outside. Warn whoever's out there you're coming. I presume this resistance has something to do with you. We don't want any more accidents."

* * *

Penelope moved her position into a laneway opposite the shop to avoid being hit by the gunfire being returned from the shop. "Well, Parker?"

"H'unfortunately, the vehicle seems to be h'armoured, milady. Some kind of h'ancient security vehicle. We can't make h'an impression."

"What about the tyres?"

"They 'ave some sort of guard on the rim. Take something h'a little more h'accurate than what I've got."

She referred to the agent beside them and was given the thumbs down.

Her com-watch buzzed. "Alan to Penelope."

"Go ahead, Alan."

"We're at the rear of the store. Just coming through what looks like a chicken coup. It's a mess. A recent fire or something. What's happening? We thought we heard a shot above us. Can you confirm what happened?"

"There's gunmen on the premises. One inside and one in the doorway. The driver is in the vehicle but we can't get to him. They're well prepared. I wouldn't tackle them if you're unarmed."

Jeff's voice cut in. "Anyone been hurt, Penny?"

"Jeff. I can't tell. The sun is behind the shop and the window is in shadow. We can't see in. I don't think we can do anything without the boys and the others in the shop being put at risk. John said there were four before the gunman arrived?"

"I'm picking up five but one is fading," John said.

Then Penelope heard a shout from across the street. "Hold on. I may have something."

She heard Virgil's voice. "Penelope. Penelope. We've been ordered into the vehicle."

"Hold your fire, everyone. Parker. We'll need the Rolls."

"Right h'away, milady."

Parker crawled back from his vantage point and hurried off down the street. Penelope could hear sirens in the distance.

"Jeff. They're coming out. The driver has opened the back door to the van. Oh, dear. That doesn't look good."

"Tell me."

"Virgil is carrying Scott. One of the gunmen is helping. Scott appears unconscious. It's hard to tell exactly from here. I can't see what might be wrong. The nurse is getting in. Scott is definitely not moving. Someone in khakis is getting in last. I'll download you an image, Jeff, just as soon as we get back to FAB One."

The doors closed and the vehicle started before it took off with a rubber-burning squeal.

"Someone has the watch," John said. "One piece of good news. There's still one person inside."

"It's clear, Alan, Gordon," Penelope said.

"We're in," Gordon replied. "It's the storekeeper, Martin. He's been shot in the abdomen. No life signs. We've commenced CPR."

"Emergency services are almost there," John said.

"There's only one blood pool," Alan said. "Maybe it wasn't Scott."

"We can pray," Penelope breathed. "We can pray."

"Right, Penny," Jeff said. "Stay with them. John's on the tracker. Gordon and Alan, when you're free, get back here. We need those Thunderbirds. We must have the equipment in those machines."

* * *

Virgil reached out with one hand to steady his position as the vehicle took a swift turn to the right. He sat with his back against a side wall of the van, his legs straight out in front of him so he could maintain his hold on Scott. Scott was sprawled across him, his face on Virgil's stomach and turned so Virgil could watch him. Scott was still out of it, though the movement seemed to distress him. His brother groaned softly and shifted his bare feet against the metal of the floor of the van. Deirdre was beside him and leaned into him as the vehicle altered direction.

"We'll get out of this," Virgil whispered to her, concerned by the stressed look on her face.

"I lied. I lied to your brothers to save my _bloody_ job. Look what happened."

"This is pretty scary."

"You hear about Aid workers kidnapped by rebels two months back in Nebivia?"

"Uh-huh."

"Me and eight others. Aid workers are cash cows in developing countries. Came back here for a bit of peace and quiet. I think I lucked out somewhere. It's this bad habit I have. I think I'm helping but it's often not spelt that way."

"Scott and I were on standby to get you out. We were ten minutes away. It's not something we usually get involved in but if it did mean rescue for you guys. Our agent brokered the deal for your release."

"Really? I didn't know." Then her face clouded. "I've gotten everyone into this. I am so sorry."

Virgil put his arm around her to stop her sliding away from him. "We'll be okay. Family's on it. How's that burn?"

"Smarting but – nothing with all this going on."

Virgil was relieved Rutledge had at least taken the watch. John would know where they were. The fact that Penelope had challenged the gunmen meant they were right there, no doubt, not far behind. Virgil was also aware his family members were without their greatest assets – their Thunderbird machines – and it would take time to retrieve them. In the meantime, he would have to watch for any opportunity, any weakness in their enemy.

Rutledge sat up behind the driver but in the back section, his attention flitting between the front window and the captives. The second gunman was braced against the rear door, using a slit window in the metal panel to spy out the back. Around them, camping gear slid across the floor in time to the frantic movements of the vehicle.

When the van settled into a more steady forward motion, Deirdre reached out to Scott, feeling his forehead and pulse in his neck.

"What do you think?" Virgil stroked Scott's hair affectionately, hoping that might reassure him.

"His arm? An infection, maybe." She moved forward so she could examine his arm. She wrapped her fingers around Scott's swollen ones then moved his hand. The response was instantaneous. Scott gave a gurgled cry and thrashed, trying to fend her off.

Virgil held him around the shoulders as she unravelled the bandage. She swore with Virgil when she saw the pumped up, shiny appearance of his forearm. She moved Scott's hand again and he jerked this time, opening his eyes.

"Sorry, Scott," she said. "That hurts, doesn't it? I'll loosen the bandage. It'll feel better but only for awhile."

Rutledge leaned their way. "What are you whispering about?"

"Scott needs medical attention. Urgently," Virgil said.

"That's why I let your sister come."

"This is more than an infection," Deirdre said, encouraging Rutledge to look at Scott's arm. "He's developing compartment syndrome. It's common in forearm injuries of this type. I'd been watching for it. There's too much swelling for the space. It causes incredible pressure on the nerves and blood vessels. His arm'll begin to die and so will he. In a few of hours he'll be screaming with the pain. He'll be uncontrollable."

"Do what you can for him."

"It requires surgery to relieve the pressure. Please. Get help. I beg you."

Virgil felt control on his temper loosen. "Look. What do you want from us? My father won't negotiate a ransom. Please get us the help we need."

Rutledge smiled stiffly. "Jefferson Tracy can keep his checking book. You two will be released. Have no fear. Tomorrow. I don't intend to harm you."

"What about Scott?"

"He'll have all the care he needs tomorrow. You can be assured of that."

"He needs it _today_."

"Would ice help?"

Virgil looked to Deirdre. "Marginally," she murmured.

Rutledge nodded. "He won't die from gangrene in a hurry."

"What do you want with Scott?" Virgil said, angrily. "If you so much as hurt him, you'll have to answer to me."

Rutledge moved in the van to sit opposite them. "Noble sentiments, Virgil isn't it? Your care for your brother is admirable. My wife and I always thought our boy should have brothers and sisters. Alas. Only one. Tell me about yourself, Virgil. I understand you come from a large family. Where do you fit in?"

"I'm the second eldest. After Scott. My father won't rest until we're safe."

"That's the wonderful thing about families, isn't it? I have no doubt your father will use every avenue, call in every favour and pay any price in an attempt to get his sons back safely. You see, that's the best thing about fathers. They care about their offspring in all sorts of unexpected ways. I can see you're trying to figure out who I am. Let me help." Rutledge reached into his pocket and unfolded a newspaper clipping. He spread it out between his two hands. "Recognise it?"

It was a picture of five body bags lined up in the rubble of a fallen building – just as Scott had left them in Kysan, Korea. The headline was jarring enough:

INTERNATIONAL RESCUE FAILS SURVIVORS

Virgil weighed his options how to play this. He could tell the truth and avoid the man's wrath if he was found to be lying. Or. He could deny any knowledge of International Rescue in the hope he could somehow talk the guy down. He guessed if Rutledge was blaming IR for the death of his son then someone not involved with the organisation may have an advantage.

The second option had its merits if the guy didn't know who he was. Virgil thought this was likely. He couldn't clearly recall Rutledge from the Korean rescue site, though there was something familiar about him. Gordon had been stationed at Mobile Control while Scott retrieved the dead. Virgil had concentrated on getting the machinery back into the pod of Thunderbird Two. He didn't actually see who was co-ordinating the rescue from the civilian side.

_Truth or dare, Virg. What'll it be?_

"I'm employed by Tracy Corporation. My father's business. Not International Rescue," Virgil said, which was true as the statement stood. Officially, he was a Tracy Corp employee.

Rutledge examined Virgil for longer than Virgil was comfortable. But the latter kept a benign expression until Rutledge finally released him, cleared something from between his teeth and shifted his forensic stare to study whatever it was from his last meal that had wedged on his fingernail.

Virgil's blood roared in his temples as he waited for Rutledge's reaction. Rutledge didn't seem to give one until he suddenly reached forward for a bag near the front of the van.

"You understand what this is about. Right?" Rutledge said.

Virgil played dumb, though Rutledge's calmness almost unnerved him. He brushed across the neck of Scott's shirt to wipe the sweat from his fingers. They'd been drilled in what to look for in people under stress: the sudden shifts in mood, the changeable behaviour, the tell-tale physical signs of distress. He didn't know if it applied to criminals but Rutledge baffled him. He could see from the corner of his eye, Deirdre was looking straight at him, intently as if waiting, and he sensed Scott was unusually still despite the movement of the van, almost as if he was listening.

"I'm not sure what this has to do with us. This is an article about the earthquake in Korea. From what you've said your son was among the victims. I'm very sorry to hear of your loss."

Rutledge pulled a black case from the bag and handed it across to Virgil. "This is my son's Thunderbird collection. Look at it. I want you to see this. Him, too." Rutledge indicated Scott. "Nicholas was quite a devotee. A believer, if you will."

Virgil looked down at the slim-line laptop, fingering along its edge. "Are you suggesting International Rescue is to blame for this? Wasn't the damage the result of an earthquake? A natural disaster?"

Rutledge leaned closer to Virgil, so close Virgil could smell his mouthwash. Rutledge placed the muzzle of his hand gun to the back of Scott's head with such force Virgil could feel the weight of the man's hatred through into his gut.

"Let me tell you who is to blame," Rutledge whispered. "I think we already know, don't we, Virgil?"

Virgil felt Scott's fingers grip his knee.

"Hey, boss!" the gunman at the rear suddenly shouted, so sudden that Deirdre startled, covering her mouth to stifle a high-pitched sound. "Check out the funny pink car."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

"What are we going to do, Dad?" Gordon puffed as he ran into the Tracy penthouse with Alan right behind him.

The crowd around John's equipment moved aside for them.

"We're going to get them back, that's what we'll do. We need the Thunderbirds. Alan, you get Thunderbird One. Tin-Tin and Brains have already gone to get Thunderbird Two." Jeff stopped, eyeing his sons who were not only wet but their clothing showed staining from blood. "Go wash up, first."

"Had to hose off," Alan said. "Couldn't show in public like we were."

Gordon was unhappy. "I'm the co-pilot of Two when Virgil's not here. I could've gone."

"You go straight to bed. Brains left you medication. Take it. It'll be a few hours before Two is ready. I need you, then. What about Langley?"

"We left the emergency crews working on him," Alan said. "He'd been down at least ten minutes. The way he was haemorrhaging, I don't like his chances."

"Do we have any idea who this jerk is?" Gordon asked. "It better not be the Hood."

The printer just finished printing out the image Penelope transmitted. John picked it up and handed it to his father but it was Gordon who reacted first.

"Hey, wait a minute. I know." Gordon took the printout from his father's grasp and tapped it thoughtfully. "That's the guy. I'm pretty sure it is. At Kysan. He was helping Scott at Mobile Control. Said he was ex-military. I remember because he kept telling everyone. He was translating for Scott so Scott could communicate with the Korean rescue co-ordinator there. John? Anything to you?"

John took the picture to study but eventually shook his head.

"Name?" his father said.

Gordon frowned. "He reacted strange. When Scott recovered the –ah- remains of those five. We laid them out and when Scott described them and said where he'd retrieved them – you know – for the official there, the guy went this terrible shade of grey. I thought at first he was going to do or say something to Scott then he just turned and walked away. I thought it was a peculiar way for a military man to respond. It wasn't pretty but he would have seen that sort of thing before. Remember, John, we had to switch over to you."

"John?" his father said.

John was already tapping at his keyboard. "If he was translating for Scott, I may have his voice on Control's recordings."

Jeff picked up the print-out. "We need to know who he is and what's his beef."

"Why don't we just get the police to stop them?" Gordon asked.

"Yeah, Gordo. Picture it now." Alan pantomimed. "Dozens of squad cars, hundreds of police officers and thousands of media following this truck down the highway. A stand-off for who knows how long. It'd be a circus. The entire world will once again read about Tracy Corp and those wayward sons. I remember something like that years ago. Didn't end well."

"All right, Alan. We get the picture," his father said. "John's already looked at the specifications for that type of vehicle. Parker thought it was originally used for the transport of gold and currency, back when that was the way things were done. I'll send it through to Brains when they get to Thunderbird Two."

"What about Scott?" Gordon said.

"He worries me." Jeff stepped to the communication console. "International Rescue Forward Base to FAB One. Come in, Penny."

"FAB One. Receiving you, Jeff. Was that download helpful?"

"Thanks." He relayed to her what they'd already found out. "See if you can get close. Listen in to what's going on. We need to know about Scott before we decide strategy."

Jeff signed off and turned back to the crowd around the console. "Let's hope this guy had an inflated idea of his military service if he needed to remind everyone about it."

* * *

"You heard Mr Tracy, Parker."

"Very good, milady." Parker flipped a switch on the dashboard. A tiny satellite dish rose from where the aerial might sit on a normal car.

The van came up from the western distributor and changed lanes onto the approaches for the harbour bridge. It was well after six in the evening and the traffic was heavy and slow across the main thoroughfare. The lines were ablaze with the red of taillights up the incline of the bridge. Penelope drew off her hat and slid a pair of headphones over her eyes, then pulled a scarf on to cover them. She pretended to recline relaxedly as the vehicle barely made thirty kilometres per hour.

"Oh, what a lovely sight. Across the harbour is so beautiful. We must spend more time exploring this city."

"If you say so, milady." Parker didn't have time to admire the view as he juggled the enormous car through the traffic, making his own gaps to push his way in but not so rudely as to attract attention through the other drivers' horns.

"Just about there," she told him. "Position the dish a few degrees left. Ah. Now, let's see what they have to say for themselves."

* * *

"Here it comes," the gunman at the rear of the van crowed. "Right alongside. Will you look at that, Driver? What do you reckon?"

"Got a Rolls insignia but I ain't never seen anything like that. See that sheila? Looks like royalty or something."

"Too busy looking at the car, mate. It's massive. Must get five to the gallon if they're lucky."

"Doorman. Driver." Rutledge withdrew his gun from the depths of Scott's scalp and shifted to look at the Rolls out the side of the van.

Virgil gripped Scott in a hold that could only be described as thankfulness, buoyed by not only the fact that Rutledge didn't pull the trigger but in the knowledge FAB One had listening capability.

Scott moved, half turning, trying to look around him.

Virgil squeezed his shoulder. "Great to see you're back with us, bro."

"The dark-haired one stirs," Rutledge said curling his upper lip.

"It's your arm that's the problem," Virgil said, a little louder than he normally would. "Deirdre thinks it's compartment syndrome. Commander Rutledge promises to get help for it, soon. He also promises to let Deirdre and I go, tomorrow. So, you relax and go back to sleep. Okay?"

Rutledge regarded Virgil suspiciously then at the car beside them. "Virgil. Shut up. Doorman? Any sign of Polair or police on the ground?"

"Nope."

"Strange. Very strange. Virgil, who did you call out to at the store?"

"Private security."

"Tracy Corp?"

"Something like that."

"Driver, take the freeway north. Use the old highway. Exit road coming up. Take it."

The van veered sharply across two lanes of traffic, causing motorists to protest with their car horns and the skid of their tyres. It stopped with the exit traffic on the Gore Hill interchange for the Pacific Highway. Virgil could see the Rolls sail on into the westbound traffic headed for the M2 western freeway and possibly little chance of getting back to them in the near future.

* * *

"Right, we have a name. Thank you, Virgil." Jeff leaned on the speaker after the transmission from Penelope faded.

"The vehicle's left the main freeway," John said.

Jeff made contact with Brains, who was en-route to Thunderbird Two, to ask about compartment syndrome.

"This is very serious, Mr Tracy. Scott could risk losing his –uh- arm if something's not done. If left for –uh- any length of time, it could jeopardise –uh- his life."

John glanced at Grandma, who stared dejectedly out the window. If he got anything at all out of this, it was the realisation of how different conducting a rescue in Thunderbird Five was from here on the ground. The space station gave him a buffer of both distance and objectivity. Facts. Media-based information was more easily transformed into sterile data. He made a mental note to never conduct a rescue with other family members present in the room.

"Penelope, they're on the Pacific Highway going into Hornsby, a major centre," John directed as his attention darted between a number of computer screens. "Okay. Strong possible. William Nicholas Rutledge."

"Don't get too close, Penny," Jeff said into the internal comms.

"International businessman and former World naval officer," John went on. "Current address Seoul. Resigned his commission with the rank commander. FF7s. Frigates. Definitely a military man, Dad. Last posting ashore at Chinhae, South Korea. Not that far west of Kysan. Answered to the Commander, Fleet Activities. Hold on. A blip on his record. I'll have to dig."

"We'll be there, shortly. FAB One out," Penelope said.

"Dad, there's no exaggeration," John exclaimed as he nearly ripped the sheet out of the printer before it had finished. "This guy's been trained to kill."

"Driver. Pull into Hornsby and swap vehicles. Something similar to what we have."

It was a short few minutes while the driver left them and skirted through the car park of a major supermarket looking for a suitable replacement. The transfer was completed swiftly. The new vehicle was a van with a few rolls of carpet in the back. White. Little sign writing. The vehicle was refuelled and Virgil was given ice and water, the ice to wrap around Scott's arm.

As they settled down to travel again, Rutledge took out the watch. He examined it, pushed the buttons then used a tiny screwdriver on his penknife set to prise off the back. Virgil watched him poke at the circuitry.

"I think that young man had a vivid imagination," Rutledge said. "I would've expected far more sophisticated workings if this belonged to International Rescue. This is just a multi-function watch. Still, this is far too much of a coincidence."

Virgil felt the van slow and make a left-hand turn off the highway. He glimpsed the place name 'Berowra' and the vehicle slowed as it went through a small town.

Rutledge focussed on Virgil. "What do you do for International Rescue, son? I saw what your brother Scott did. What about yourself?"

_Can I maintain the pretence__?_ Virgil thought.

"I work for Tracy Corp in Research and Development. I'm an engineer," Virgil responded, which again was true.

"I guess I should expect that answer." Rutledge juggled the watch. "I'm glad I didn't pay the earth for this. So, why were you at the store?"

Virgil thought quickly. "I came with Scott. He said he had some business with Langley."

"And your brother allowed you to see the secret goings-on of International Rescue?"

Virgil glanced furtively at Deirdre. "Langley was showing the watch off. Boasting. As you said the device is useless. He made it up."

Rutledge tapped the once complicated timepiece on his knee. "Well, one thing I'll give Jefferson Tracy credit. He raised a terrible liar. I might believe you, except for the fact I was close enough to catch your brother's communication at his post. Virgil. John. Gordon. I heard the names. All sons of former astronaut Jefferson Tracy according to Langley's website. You were operating the machine your brother referred to as Domo One. Don't try that again, Virgil. Next time we talk, I'll expect more respect." Rutledge scrutinised the device one last time before announcing his defeat. "This is no good to me."

"I told the truth," Virgil said. "I didn't lie."

"Mmm, I know you did. That's why you're still alive."

To Virgil's great dismay, Rutledge slid open the side window of the van and tossed the com-watch out onto the road.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

"Stop. Penelope. Stop." John said over the comm link. "They've stopped." John stared at the screen and the signal remained static. "They're about two hundred yards ahead of you."

"We'll wait." When nothing happened after a few minutes, Penelope added. "I'll take a stroll to see what's happened."

"Send Parker," Jeff said. "You've been seen."

John waited a further ten minutes, his nerves stretched wire taut until Penelope spoke again.

"Bad news, I'm afraid, Jeff. They've jettisoned the watch."

* * *

The van took it slowly down a series of hairpin bends, making the trip in the back uncomfortable. Virgil used his bulk to keep Scott and Deirdre from sliding too far across the floor of the vehicle. At the bottom, the van stopped with a squeal of brakes. A number of other cars were also stopped, and Doorman and Driver pulled off their balaclavas. Virgil noticed that both henchmen were young, shaven males. They followed Rutledge's instruction without hesitation and he was reminded of service personnel. Ex-servicemen, to be sure.

They were at a river or waterway of some kind. Virgil could see a punt coming towards the line of cars. When the front cars moved forward, the van pulled off the road and stopped in a parking bay.

"Everybody out," Rutledge said. "Scott, you need to walk as best you can. Any noise or resistance will be dealt with. Virgil, help him."

They were each given equipment to carry, which they hurried across to a launch tied to a jetty, and, without missing a beat, they roared off into a river surrounded by steep-sided cliffs.

"I know this area," Deirdre whispered to Virgil. "This leads out into the Hawkesbury and eventually out to sea. When I first came to Australia, I lived in Gosford, which is up the coast a ways. It's pretty wild around here, mostly national parks. He's chosen well to avoid the police. By road, there's only one way north until you hit Gosford. Here, there's miles of waterway. A million hiding places."

Virgil tried not to take that information too much to heart as he sat with Scott and Deirdre in the open deck of an unmarked cruiser looking back the way they'd come, staring at the sandstone around them. At any other time, his artistic eye would have delighted at the way the last rays of the sun touched the rugged cliff faces. Instead, he strained to see in the distance, hoping for any sign of Penelope.

* * *

"There's no armoured van here, Jeff," Penelope said. "There were a dozen cars waiting for the ferry when we arrived. I've asked the ferry operator. He doesn't recall any such vehicle going across. We may have missed them."

"John reported the vehicle stopped in the last centre for at least ten minutes. Could they have swapped? Any truck types at all?"

"Why, yes. A van carrying carpet. Wait. I'll look." Five minutes passed slowly. "Got it, Jeff. I found a black ski mask in the back. It looks like they may have taken to the water. Boats are at anchor across the river. Shall we follow?"

Jeff referred to John beside him. "How far away is Thunderbird One?"

"Fifteen minutes." John said and continued to read out information about ex-Commander Rutledge as he accessed it. "Assigned to shore duties two years ago after an incident in the East China Sea. Apparently his frigate sailed into hostile fire and was lost without returning a shot. Thirteen sailors perished. Let's see…" He skimmed through documents in front of him. "Official opinion was a combat stress reaction. It was reported that when Rutledge was picked up, he was in some kind of fugue state. They couldn't prove whether he went in that state at the time of engagement or after he'd watched the ship go down. Rutledge blamed equipment malfunction for the failure. His version of events was supported by his crew but he was still posted ashore. Didn't accept it and didn't go quietly. Took up civilian duties shortly after."

"We could go for a jaunt to see what we can pick up," Penelope suggested. "If I remember correctly there is a lot of water here about."

"They've seen you. They'll know you're following."

"I understand completely but your man is Navy, he's in his element. We need to keep close or we'll lose him. If we could just sight the type of vessel."

"All right. Be careful. Don't get too close. It'll be dark soon. Alan can take over with the Infra-red. I don't know what they'll do—"

"Dad," John said. "Rutledge is a distinguished name in the World Navy. Three generations of Rutledge made the rank of admiral and above. All except this sonofabitch. This guy could be carrying some serious baggage."

* * *

Scott couldn't help smiling. He lay between Virgil and Deirdre, and stared out across the stern of the cruiser from underneath the canopy. He could see FAB One up on its hydrofoil and catching them.

"What's he grinning about?" Rutledge said.

"Maybe that, boss." Doorman pointed away to the unusual vehicle. "First, it was a pink car, now it's a pink boat. If I'd been on the booze."

Rutledge raised a pair of binoculars to look. "Virgil? What's this?"

"Er – don't know. Looks strange to me."

"Be sensible. It won't take much to hurt your brother. What is it?"

"Tracy Corp security."

"It's followed us from the beginning. How?" Rutledge stared at each of them. "Are you wearing anything? Trackers?"

"No, sir."

"I'll have you all stripped."

"It was the watch."

"Ah, I see. Not as innocent as I thought." Rutledge went back to watching FAB One through the binoculars.

"I wouldn't believe it, if I didn't see it myself," Doorman quipped.

"What other surprises? Is she armed?"

Virgil looked away at the cliffs around them before answering. "Yes, sir."

"Commander," Scott said. "I can empathise with your distress, please believe me I do, but you're wasting your time. You won't get away with this. If you won't let me go, at least let the others go. Please."

Rutledge continued to look through the binoculars. "Virgil, what equipment's on board?"

"Er – satellite GPS."

"You know that's not what I meant."

"Rutledge, you won't get away—" Scott didn't get to finish. Rutledge came at him and hauled him from the deck by the front of his shirt. Scott found he was staring into the bulging, bloodshot whites of Rutledge's eyes.

"Do you know what my son was doing? That day? Do you?" Rutledge shook him and Scott felt the material of his clothes bite into his throat. He latched onto Rutledge's fist to stop being choked. "Typhoon _Maeri_. Last summer. Remember it? Nicholas wanted me to take him to see where Thunderbird One landed. He wanted to see the place where his favourite machine had been." Rutledge shook him again. "What do you think of that? Huh? I had plans for that boy. Big plans. Admiral Rutledge. Huh? Huh? Like the sound of that? But no. He didn't want to fight for his country. He wanted to fly for International Rescue. He worshipped _you_. Not me. _You_."

Virgil grabbed Rutledge's forearm to stop him hurting Scott, which prompted Doorman to step in and press the pistol to Virgil's temple. There was a moment of unspoken lethal threat before Rutledge seemed to gather himself. He threw Scott back onto the deck and withdrew, staring out the stern. So did Doorman.

Scott lay on the boards and coughed and gagged while Deirdre tried to comfort him.

"Radar and thermal imagining," Virgil said quickly, in answer to Rutledge's question.

"The laptop I gave you. Look at it," Rutledge ordered them.

"Fairly conspicuous for covert operations, ain't it?" Doorman said, motioning towards FAB One. "Never seen anything like it. A car that's a boat."

Rutledge raised his glasses again. "It's backing off. Sensible." He turned towards the bow. "Driver, find a flotilla and get among them. Once we get near the Hawkesbury system, we'll wait for dark."

"We need a plan," Scott whispered aside to his brother when he could speak, wiping tears self-consciously from his face.

"One that includes you."

"One that gets Deirdre to safety with you."

"Not good enough. Do you think he might let Deirdre and I go?"

Scott shook his head. "He's reacting too coldly. Makes him extremely dangerous. Could be delayed shock. He's proven he'll kill, if anything gets in his way. Dad won't hold off forever."

Virgil opened the laptop to look through it as ordered. When he turned it on, space-age machines burst onto the screen with such a loud sound bite, they both flinched. "Can you blame this guy? Really? When you consider it from a different angle?"

Scott watched as Virgil scrolled through the menu. "You think this is my fault?"

"Of course not. But turn it around." Virgil pointed to the screen. "See that? Nicholas has every rescue in order."

Scott found it difficult to consider any point of view other than the one that had been staring him in the face. "You think Dad would go out and do this?"

"No. What if he thought someone had been responsible for one or more of our deaths? What would he do?" They both startled when screams rang out from a video file of a live-action mock up of one of their rescues. "The likeness to Thunderbird One isn't bad. I can never figure out how they mess-up Thunderbird Two. It's big enough."

"Like this? No way. No. Way."

"We've been ordered to shoot, before. Remember when we were lured by the Hood to that airfield in Casablanca?"

"In self-defence."

"We weren't being fired on. We didn't know for sure who was in those buildings."

"Are you saying something, here? That I've contributed to this? That this guy's justified?"

"He heard you argue with Gordon. He heard you two disagree. I'm just trying to understand it from his perspective. Find a weakness." Virgil stopped speaking when Rutledge leaned against the stern's bulwark so he could face the hostages.

"You've had time to look at my son's collection. What do you think?"

"Nicholas obviously thought a lot of International Rescue," Scott said. "I'm honoured your son thought so highly of our work. But the first rule of that work, Commander Rutledge, is to protect the rescuer. That's what I did in Kysan. Protect the rescuer. My job. Now, please. Let Virgil and Deirdre go before anyone else gets hurt."

"Do you know what the name 'Nicholas' means?" Rutledge said. "Victory. Victory of the people. Victory of the small, the weak, the poor. Isn't that what you people are supposed to stand for? Help for those whose are unable to help themselves. You chose your own, your brother Gordon over my son Nicholas. You admit it. You chose your own, first."

"Your son's dedication is touching. Humbling. It's a comprehensive collection and we don't deserve such an honour. I had to make a decision, Commander, in a situation that, in all likelihood, was going to cost someone. From your position, I'm sure you know the kind I'm talking about. In future, I know I will find a similar—"

"Future. _Future_?" Rutledge almost laughed. "What is left of your life, Tracy? Think about it. Your usefulness to International Rescue is a thing of the past. Do you think your organisational head will want you back? After this? Your actions have exposed your own secret organisation and brought it into disrepute. I need do very little. My role is the commitment I made to my son. One day, I predict you may even thank me for what I'm going to do."

Scott's mind closed over those comments, accepting them in as if they were already part of a reality he hadn't yet acknowledged.

"Don't listen to him. It's not true." Virgil gripped his arm as if his brother had seen him absorb the sentiments and wanted to wring them out of him. "You made the right decision."

Rutledge fished an object from his pocket and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. "What do you think this is?"

At first, Scott thought it looked like a model of an aeroplane with its long tubular body and angled wings but when Rutledge moved it between his fingers, Scott could see it was meant to be his craft. Thunderbird One. It was silver in colour with touches of red on the forward section, one aspect appearing misshapen compared to the rest, and the tail was a collection of imaginative rocket thrusters.

"I gave it to Nicholas for his tenth birthday. It was…in his pocket when you..." Rutledge stared at the rocket-plane in his hand and for one fleeting, fluttering, heart-beat of a second, Scott thought it might be all over. Rutledge's shoulders sagged and a lost expression replaced the iron. Virgil tensed beside him as if in readiness to tackle the man. The moment was gone just as quickly. Doorman closed in around his employer, his weapon aimed at the captives.

"Some ideas are more dangerous than others," Doorman said then nudged Rutledge. "Right, boss?"

Rutledge flicked something on the tail section of the model and a flame rose from one of the tiny thrusters. Scott saw it was actually a cigarette lighter.

"And there I was worried he'd take up smoking if I gave him something like this. Here." Rutledge tossed the misshapen model so Scott could catch it. "You keep it. My son doesn't need it."

* * *

"Oh dear." Penelope laid down the binoculars on the car seat beside her and referred to the monitor indicating the position of other craft on the water in front of them.

"Penny?"

"Jeff, I never thought I'd regret such lovely weather. I think we may have located our mark but I do believe he may have seen us. One of the drawbacks of using line of sight, I'm afraid. An unmarked cruiser and it's now trying to hide among all the other vessels out here."

"Stay with it. Alan's almost there."


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

"Dad, I might have something." John stared at the information on his screen. "Rutledge owns a shipyard in Newcastle, just up the coast from here. They refit and upgrade coastguard vessels and other public sector marine equipment. Apparently he employs only ex-naval personnel. On the water, these guys are going to know what they're doing. What I can intercept from their internal correspondence, Rutledge is supposed to be on hand today to start open water testing of a Coastguard cutter they've just upgraded. A long shot but a possibility. If they were going to make a run for it, a cutter would be the perfect vessel."

"Details?"

"US Coastguard medium range patrol cutter. There wouldn't be too many craft painted white with the distinctive red racing stripe in these waters."

"Penelope can look for it as soon as Alan arrives."

At that moment Alan's eyes flashed in his portrait on the communication console and Jeff reached to open the link.

"Forward Base to Thunderbird One. Come in, Alan."

"I'm approaching the Australian mainland. Do you have co-ordinates for me?"

Jeff deferred to John to supply the information and the news about the coastguard vessel, and took a moment to relax. Jeff was feeling the strain. Maybe it was preferable to deal with someone like the Hood. The confounded individual had a predictable agenda – he wanted information – and he took a calculated risk to get it. The information was no good to him if he was dead or if he couldn't profit from it.

This was different. This was revenge, no two ways about it. No effort had been made to ransom his sons. Virgil had said he was to be released. Nothing was said about Scott, except that aid would come tomorrow. The coastguard vessel would have a fully equipped medical unit. It would also have a brig, for the express purpose of holding someone for indefinite periods. There would be no negotiation.

But how could he be stopped without risking the lives of his sons?

Jeff reached for the link to the transporter. "Forward Base to Thunderbird Two. Brains, Tin-Tin. Respond."

"Uh, Mr Tracy, we're just deciding what –uh- equipment to bring in the pod."

"Bring Thunderbird Four," he said. He relayed the information he had so far – including the reason for the kidnap of Scott and Virgil. "Get here as soon as you can. I've got the feeling we're going to need Two. And I've got the feeling this is going to be more difficult than we imagine."

* * *

For hours, Virgil watched while the cruiser made leapfrog progress along the river, only moving and berthing where there were other craft, never venturing far along the watercourse on its own.

Crafty bastard. Rutledge was not giving Penelope a clean sighting. They'd be lost in the data.

It was dark, the air warm in patches, cool in others. The water was still, the rhythmic lap against the hull hypnotic. Scott shivered beside him and Virgil did his best to keep his brother warm. The pain was getting to Scott, Virgil could tell. Scott didn't complain but he spent more time in a restless, shivery sleep, sweat lingering on his forehead, his fingers balled around the model of Thunderbird One Rutledge had given him. Deirdre also watched him with concern and Virgil knew there was only so much the ice could do.

Somewhere around ten o'clock, the boat pulled into a wide part of the waterway and made a dash across open water to bump all those aboard awake into a jetty of rotting posts.

"This is it for tonight. Out," Rutledge said.

They tramped up a rock-hewn slope that was hemmed in by trees and scrub, the lights from far off civilisation veiled by the thick canopies, and they fell into a shack that had been prepared for them.

"More of an adventure than I expected but I believe we've lost our tail," Rutledge said with some satisfaction while Doorman lit the lanterns.

Virgil took heart from the sound of engines he'd heard earlier. They were distant but it was Thunderbird One and he wondered if Scott had heard it. He tried not to show that he recognised it, instead he concentrated on hauling Scott up the slope. His brother did his best to help but he went to his knees so often, Virgil had to largely drag him.

"Watch yourself," Deirdre whispered to Virgil. "We can't afford you to do yourself an injury."

Virgil stood inside the shack and waited for further instructions. It was a wooden building, equipped with a table, chairs, mattress, stove and sink; a hideaway for fishermen if the poles, nets and floats were any indication. There were two windows, a front door and one other door standing temptingly at the other end. Another room? A rear exit?

When the others were out of hearing, Scott began to mutter to himself. What Virgil heard him repeat was "I've blown it".

"You're in good company, buddy. You deserved more credit. Me, Dad included. I should've been up-front about what was happening. Less thinking, huh, we've got bigger issues."

"Made the wrong decision. That boy. That girl. I've stuffed up."

"Take your own advice for a change. Don't. Don't think about it."

"Virgil. Over here." Rutledge indicated the mattress over by the wall and where he dumped two sleeping bags. "Bring your brother." Virgil hesitated when he spied an iron ring secured into the wall. "Sorry to have to do this to you. You've been polite but, if you consider my position, you'd understand." Rutledge whipped out a pair of handcuffs and secured Virgil's right hand. Before he could protest, Virgil found he was tethered to the wall. "As you're the most able-bodied, I can't afford to have you loose. You can have your brother for a little while longer. Sit, please. It's only temporary." Rutledge turned to Deirdre. "Sister, attend to their needs. Eat. Drink. Everything's provided. Whatever they need. Then you join them."

Virgil studied the room while he ate and tempted Scott with food without success. Scott refused food or drink. As the night wore on, Virgil became increasingly worried by the way the one called Driver watched Deirdre. He recognised the signs. The man said very little and the two hired help played cards with each other easily enough but Driver's attention was on the only female in the group. Virgil's concern doubled when he overheard Rutledge give instructions to his men.

"I'll be gone in a couple of hours. Separate those two when I leave. Only Scott is to be brought to the jetty when I give the signal. He may resist but you know what we agreed you're to do." He tapped his chest pocket. "Leave the others. Unharmed. You understand me? Let them go."

So, they would be left alone with the henchmen. Virgil didn't like it.

An hour later, Deirdre whispered the statement Virgil had been dreading. "Scott's lost the radial pulse in his arm. He needs a fasciotomy. We'll have to open his arm."

Scott was, by all accounts, asleep curled up against his brother but Virgil could tell his breathing was strained, his attitude and face far from relaxed.

"We have to do something." Virgil glanced around at the interior of the shack. "I could try. I've done one in conditions worse than this."

"You wouldn't do it, not once it starts to hurt him. You're too close. I've done it before. I'll do it."

"Forget it."

"Look, I understand you might not like me after – after. Please believe me, I wouldn't hurt him – not intentionally."

Despite believing what she said, Virgil was having none of it. He couldn't hand Scott over to someone who had wilfully deceived them. "No-one touches Scott, not like this. No-one but me. You guide me. I'll need your help." He sought out their captor. "Rutledge. Scott's arm has lost the pulse. It's lost the circulation. He needs emergency medical intervention."

Rutledge came over to look. "Tomorrow."

"There'll be no saving it tomorrow."

"There's nothing I can do."

"We can," Deirdre said. "If you won't do anything, we might be able to save it."

"How?"

"An incision," Virgil said. "Down the length of the inside of his forearm. Not very deep."

Doorman stood by Rutledge's side. "Sounds macabre even by my standards."

"An incision? A surgical incision?" Rutledge looked around him. "Here?"

"He'll be extremely ill by morning if we don't," Deirdre said. "It's, um, like skinning a sausage. If we cut along the top, it gives room for what's inside to spread. That's all we have to do. It's not as bad as it sounds."

"You can't do it here. I won't allow it. Conditions are abysmal."

Doorman tapped Rutledge's forearm and drew him aside. "You think Nicky'll understand if you don't help? You promised you'd give this bloke an even chance. You know, your grand plan. Won't be possible without an arm."

Virgil's attention was on Rutledge. "Even chance? What do you mean by 'even chance'?"

"His new life, of course. One a little different to what he's used to. Get to know a little pain and heartache for something he's lost. Nicholas can see for himself what his hero is really made of."

"Scott will never co-operate with you."

Rutledge slid a shiny black case about the size of a man's shaving kit from his pocket over his chest and dropped it into Virgil's lap. "Open it."

"What's this?"

Rutledge laughed. "The innocence is heart-rending." Rutledge picked it up and opened it for him, holding it a foot from his face. Virgil was horrified to see it contained the paraphernalia to use illicit drugs. All new, all neatly packed side by side. Rutledge continued. "Scott will have a chance. He can renounce his former life and embrace mine. Captain in the Air Force was a promising start. How about a brilliant young military man going places carrying the Rutledge name? Scott can still have a life of note, if he chooses. Just not in the way he planned."

"And this is what he gets if he doesn't?" Virgil was almost hypnotised by the glint from the needle in the syringe.

"By the time we get where we're going, he'll see me as a benefactor. He'll do anything to earn his way." Rutledge tapped the case. "The streets of Kysan are a great equaliser. Let him feel what it's like to be dependent. To have all means of survival placed in another's hands, like my son, knowing in the end there will be only one result. It's about needs. We all have them, even the heroes of International Rescue. Approval? Adoration? Power? I know all about the need for approval. Which one is it for Scott, I wonder? Maybe all three."

"Natural law killed your son," Virgil said.

Rutledge pointed at Scott. "He took my son. Respect. Admiration. Life. I want that back."

"Is this what you call an even chance?" Virgil was alarmed by the plan and not a little disturbed by the man's thinking. Did Rutledge seriously believe he could pull this off?

"You prefer I put the gun to his head? Put him out of his misery?"

"This is not about Nicholas," Virgil said.

"Scott will come. I can see you doubt me but he will, I know he will. If not now. Later. He has caught a glimpse of his own fallibility, Virgil. The brilliant ones feel the keenest anguish over their flaws. He will be my Nicholas incarnate. Scott Rutledge, the new Nicholas. He will come because I will tolerate his weakness. Will your organisational head?"

"Scott did not make the wrong decision. He did not make a mistake."

"International Rescue is not responsible for the choices you and your son made," Deirdre said. "You're grieving. You're upset. Yes. We do understand. But you're not thinking straight and you're only adding to your son's tragedy. Are you going to help us? Or are we going to do this by ourselves because we're going to do this whatever you say. If you object, you had better stand back and keep out of our way."

Rutledge rubbed his face with both his hands as he seemed to take a minute to gather his bearings. Doorman nudged Rutledge and this brought the man back. "About this incision? What do you do about it?"

"Nothing. That's it. The incision's left open. Scott must lie perfectly still so as not to bleed." Virgil noticed the delay. He noticed whenever Rutledge was challenged, the man hesitated.

Doorman cursed softly and looked pale from the thought of it.

"Well?" Deirdre said. "It must be done."

"What do you need?"

"A very sharp knife, a heat source, lots of cloth. Clean towels would do. And you lot to hold Scott down."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-one**

In the Tracy penthouse, John sweated at the computer to find something that might be useful.

His father paced behind him. "Gordon. Get moving. Helijet in fifteen." His father returned to the computer to breathe down John's neck. "Have Penelope meet Gordon and me at the Gosford helipad in thirty minutes. How's Alan doing? That search pattern working?"

"He's identified a number of possibilities. Penelope's ruled out five. Another five to check."

"As soon as Thunderbird Two arrives, give them an area to search. Inch by inch."

"FAB."

Gordon slouched into the chair beside John.

"You look like baked turd," John told him.

Gordon grinned. "I'd tell you what you look like but I'd get in trouble."

Grandma put a cup of coffee down in front of Gordon and ruffled his hair, which he tried unsuccessfully to avoid. "Look at you. Thank goodness no member of the public'll see you. That's one swollen eye you've got, young man."

John squeezed his brother's shoulder. Then the computer search found what he'd been looking for.

"Dad, I've located Rutledge's wife. They've been living apart for a number of years but I wonder if she could help."

* * *

Virgil looked over the primitive tools they had gathered from around the shack for the procedure on Scott's arm. It was far from ideal but it was the best he had. Perhaps this was going to be more difficult than he imagined. Visions of Scott only ninety-eight percent intact, visions of his Scott missing from the elbow down brought the taste of gall to his lips. It was not a question of cutting. It was a question of cutting the right things that was both the carrot and the stick.

What if he made it worse for his brother?

"Scott?"

"It's power," Scott said as he breathed heavily, his eyes glazed and his voice catching. "A power trip. What we do."

"Bullshit and you know it." Virgil picked up the penknife and held it up to the light of the lantern to examine a defect in the blade.

"Ego. Certainly ego. Those machines are something else. Where do we get off, Virg? Huh? Thinking we can—"

"We don't." Virgil held the blade over an open flame of a gas burner to sterilise it. Scott's chuckle in return sounded more like a cough, however, Virgil was intent on what he had to do. "Keep talking like that and I'll slug you."

"Maybe I take. Take. Have to learn to give"

"You won't survive more giving. Concentrate, will you? I need you with me on this." Virgil shook his head with consternation when Scott's face creased into a Cheshire cat grin.

"I'm there, bro. Under that slab. In your hands."

Virgil felt the knife was twisting in his own gut as he gazed down at his brother. Scott rolled his head slowly from side to side, his lips moving without always forming words, a strange luminance about his face that could only mean the onset of serious illness

_I have to do this but does Scott have to be so frigging cavalier about it_?

"Don't do that to me, you shit," he whispered then said to Deirdre. "I'm counting on you to keep his arm still and coach his breathing when it gets too much. Like you would through a woman having contractions. And – for mercy's sake – tell me if I'm going to do something wrong." Virgil cooled the knife by waving it, drawing in a large breath to hold it as he waited. "Try not to hold this against me, huh?" He gave Scott's good hand a squeeze and Scott squeezed back. "Okay, put weight on him."

Virgil could tell when the knife first went in. Scott shuddered the entire length of his body yet, instead of crying out, he sucked in air through his teeth, the muscles in his cheeks starting to tremble.

"Breathe, buddy, breathe," Virgil whispered and wrestled with that stick to stop it reaching down into his knife hand.

* * *

In FAB One, Jeff knew Penelope waited for him to act. She was silent, her head turned towards the car window apparently admiring the view that would have been visible if it had been daylight. Parker waited. The rest of the family waited. They were atop Warrah Lookout, where, if it wasn't for the heavy timber, he could look left to see the Pacific Ocean out past Broken Bay and if he looked right, the Hawkesbury system.

Alan had located the coastguard vessel. It lay at anchor just inside Broken Bay, at the mouth of the Hawkesbury, and they could see it on infra-red.

Jeff considered the page of information in front of him one more time then fingered the communication console. It was a difficult decision but an earlier discussion with Brains was a welcome boost.

"Mr Tracy, I have –ah- some information that might be helpful."

"Go ahead, Brains."

"Well, the technical data is –ah- just becoming available on the building in Kysan. There are some – ah- interesting anomalies."

"Tell me."

"Virgil has left some –ah- samples in Thunderbird Two that he has collected from the site. It's possible he has noticed something that is currently being discussed on the –ah- International Civil Engineering Forum. It looks like he hasn't had time to –ah- complete—"

"What is it?"

"Well, Mr Tracy, there is a lot of conjecture –ah- as to why the buildings in this port precinct suffered such catastrophic failure considering this country has robust –ah- earthquake provisions in their building codes."

"What are you saying? Poor workmanship?"

"Ah, no – not necessarily. Since a similar failure in their architecture –ah- around the turn of the century, the government has –ah- been keen to discourage incidents of a similar nature. We can't rule that possibility out at this early stage but I don't—"

"Then, what?"

"Salt, Mr Tracy."

"Salt?"

"The samples I have here in Thunderbird Two –ah- are labelled lower floor supporting columns. The building that took those –ah- five lives was built with single slab floors supported by vertical columns."

"Is that bad?"

"No, not at –ah- all. It's very common but these –ah- samples show a definite honey-combing of the concrete surrounding the –ah- reinforced steel rods that run vertically through them and the rods appear to demonstrate advanced electrochemical corrosion. I would have to run tests to confirm—"

"Rust?"

"That's what it appears to –ah- be. Standard building codes for –ah- earthquake regions require deeper, broader foundations and an increased number of steel reinforcing rods in the supporting columns. I believe –ah- the irony of this, Mr Tracy, is that the codes may have –ah- actually weakened this building."

"Plain English, Brains."

"The ICE Forum has been discussing the potential –ah- effect over time of increased salinity in subsoils on heavily developed coastal regions. Kysan is a port city, Mr Tracy, and subject to regular -ah- inundation by sea water during their typhoon season. That, together with the increase of sea levels under global warming, have many –ah- experts worried as to what effect this will have on multi-storey developments along the coast. If you think around the world, the potential—"

"Okay, I get it. How does this help Scott?"

"Well…indirectly, perhaps. It may help you – ah- more. And it may help Commander Rutledge –ah- understand the futility of what Virgil and Gordon were doing. If what I'm seeing in this sample is –ah- repeated throughout the building then this structure is likely to have fallen at –ah- even the lowest seismic activity. Virgil and Gordon were working in –ah- conditions much more dangerous than would have been apparent –ah- even to Scott, particularly as –ah- sections were still standing. The slightest movement, Mr Tracy, -ah- even from the heavy machinery could have been disastrous for those still working the site. When columns in buildings of this type fail, it is common the floors, -ah- 'pancake' for want of a –ah- clearer description. They come down one on top of –ah- the other in extremely large segments. From what I could see from Firefly's visual recordings this is the case. It is almost certain that the jacks Gordon were –ah- using would have been unable to support the weight."

"You're telling me that Scott was right to force Gordon back."

"I am, Mr Tracy."

Cherrie Rutledge had also been helpful. She was upset to learn that Rutledge could be planning to hurt Scott. Jeff didn't go into detail as to what was currently unfolding, he only relayed his fears that Rutledge might harm his eldest.

"I know this is a difficult decision for you, dear Jeff," Penelope said, her hand resting on his forearm. "Very difficult."

It was made harder by confirmation from Alan that, while the coastguard vessel was manned by a skeleton crew of twenty, their equipment couldn't find evidence of his sons. All those on board moved freely about the ship, not like those who were captives. Scott and Virgil were not aboard.

So, where were they?

Cherrie Rutledge had given him her husband's satellite phone number. Jeff fingered that number. He would use the approach that was successful with Hubert. Father to father. The grave fear was he could make things worse.

He punched in Rutledge's number and it was answered on the fifth ring.

"Cherrie, I told you—"

"I want my sons back, Mr Rutledge. Today and unharmed." Jeff's voice was cold, even.

"How did you…? It's _Commander_ Rutledge to you."

"I want my sons back before sun-up. Understand? You have no right to hold them or harm them."

"Your eldest destroyed my son in Korea, just as he destroyed that young girl on the streets of Sydney."

"Rutledge, that building in Kysan was ready to fall. It was a death trap. Release my sons and we can discuss this. Sensibly."

"You can't stop me."

"I can and I will. Let Scott and Virgil go."

"You can have Virgil and that woman back," Rutledge said before he turned off the phone.

* * *

Virgil had only just begun to consider the next problem – their future – when he was distracted. He still felt more than a little queasy thinking about what he'd just done; cutting down length of Scott's forearm with a less than razor-sharp implement.

Virgil had been grateful for Deirdre's assistance, realising he may not have been able to do it without her help, his nerve almost abandoning him. Deirdre had kept them both at it and she'd been right. It was like skinning a sausage. When he had cut the swollen tissue, it raised and spread back like he'd seen Grandma's cake do as it baked. Luckily, part of Scott's forearm had already been incised and all he needed to do there was release the sutures.

With the strangest fascination, the engineer in Virgil had studied the long smooth muscles that provided the power needed to move Scott's hand. He'd watched the limb redden, the radial artery restart its wriggle. While he had stroked his brother's arm to absorb the excess fluid with the cloths provided, he was saddened that such a perfect mechanism was marred.

Scott seemed to be asleep, though Virgil could no longer reach him to tell for sure. Rutledge had left after the operation, Virgil had been separated from Scott and Doorman sat over his brother as guardian.

Virgil had just started to think about how they could get out of the place before Rutledge returned when Doorman picked up a shovel and casually mentioned to his companion he was going out to sample the night air. Virgil braced for trouble. As soon as Doorman left, Driver went over to Scott to check him then came to stand in front of Deirdre, eyeing her.

Virgil was on full alert as Driver moved in.

"So, you know the rules of engagement do you, love?"

Deirdre inched closer to Virgil. "Get lost, creep."

He squatted in front of her. "You got some spunk for someone who's, how shall we say, been around the block a few times."

"Back off, pal," Virgil said.

"Did you hear that, sister? The yessir, nosir fancies some for himself. We know what we call that, don't we?"

"Touch her and you will regret it."

Driver grabbed Deirdre around the throat and she squealed. "What are you going to do about this, eh poofta?" Deirdre tried to kick Driver and retreat closer to Virgil but Driver twisted her arm to stop her. "Let me fill you in on the facts, sister. When the boss picks up the crack kid, you'll be disposed of. You will not walk out of here. Guaranteed. But, now, do a little favour for me and I'll do a little favour for you. What's say?" He nodded towards the door. "The back room? Huh? Doesn't have to be difficult. No, wait a minute. I know. Better yet, why don't we let your nancy boys watch? They might enjoy it."

Driver didn't wait for her answer. He dragged her from the mattress by the shoulder of her shirt. She struggled and screamed, tried to kick, to bite in a wild fashion, but Driver only laughed. Virgil made a lunge for them with his free hand only to be brought up by the manacle on his other hand. The strain nearly wrenched his shoulder from its socket and he saw stars.

When he looked again, he saw Driver's path blocked by Scott. Driver startled and appeared alarmed to see Scott towering over him. With his dishevelled appearance and blood-splattered clothing, Scott looked gothic even to Virgil.

"Bad career move. First. You'll be dead meat by sun-up. Rutledge was specific. They are to be let go and I will make sure that happens. Second. Even I wouldn't risk my brother's wrath. He has the temper of a Grizzly. When he gets hold of you – and believe me, he will – he will tear you apart. Limb by limb. Me, on the other hand, am as harmless as a kitten. Why don't you take me on? Huh? More your match."

Virgil was mortified. "Scott! _No_!"

Driver didn't hesitate. He seemed to grow larger with anger as he launched at Scott.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-two**

Scott was under no illusions as to what the outcome would be. He could only hope that Doorman came back some time soon to stop what was going to be a slaughter. As Driver hit him, he did strike a blow to the side of the man's neck. It shook his attacker. It stopped him and for a moment Driver looked surprised Scott had managed to get past his defences. The reprieve was only momentary and Driver came back baying for retribution.

Scott was already going down, backwards, when Deirdre weighed in. She went for Driver with all the fury of a bobcat, kicking, hitting, biting, anything to keep him from Scott, who was helpless on the floor. They grappled for longer than Scott expected but, when the man swung with a well-directed fist, he sent Deirdre crashing into the wall, where she hung for a second before slumping to her knees.

Virgil went ballistic behind him but all he could do was rage like a caged beast. Driver came back at Scott, sprawled over him, his forearm pushed upward into Scott's throat, the muzzle of the firearm pressed to his forehead between his eyes.

"Can't wait to find out what it feels like, huh?" Driver shouted in his face. "Well, I'll show you. I'll show you, you pretty bastard, just what you've got to look forward to."

Scott felt himself greying out as he was being choked, the pressure in his head, the pressure on his arm overcoming any effort to stay with it. He was dimly aware of the weight of some evil-smelling breath in his nostrils.

Virgil shouted somewhere off in the distance and Deirdre sobbed quietly.

The darkness closed in…

The next thing Scott was aware was a distinct metallic click, so loud, so close Scott expected to have his brains blown any second. Then the angry voice of Doorman.

"You stupid bastard. Get off him!" The weight on Scott's body vanished, like he'd suddenly achieved weightlessness. "You stupid bloody moron."

"Didn't touch him," Driver said.

"You stupid, stupid arsehole."

Scott felt a gentler hand on his forehead and he opened his eyes to re-orientate beyond a haze of confusion and voices above his head. Across the room, he saw Virgil had one leg stretched out as far as his bonds would allow, almost bursting a vessel in an attempt to get hold of a metal post that was just beyond the reach of his toes.

"Didn't hurt him, I swear," Driver said. "I swear."

Scott broadened his focus, searching for Deirdre. She was absorbed in watching the henchmen and she didn't appear to notice what Virgil trying to do while the two men argued.

"You heard," Doorman said. "He's International Rescue. Give him a break."

"Open your eyes and look what we've got here. We could do better. We could. They'd be worth a packet on the open market."

Scott rolled onto his side and made a sound in the attempt to keep their captors' attention away from Virgil. If only he could catch Deirdre's eye. He felt a blanket drag over him and a heavy hand on his shoulder kept him still.

"You're forgetting the debts, dickhead," Doorman said, feeling Scott's forehead again. "We owe Rutledge and he's been more than generous. No extradition treaty where we're going. Get your head out of your balls. The boss'll hear about this. Outside. We need to work out what we're going to tell him. In private."

As soon as the two men left and the door shut, Virgil said, "Dee. The pole. Our only chance."

Deirdre was slow to comprehend, still holding the point on her jaw where Driver had punched her.

Virgil indicated the length of metal on the floor just out of his reach. "The pole. To me. Quick!"

Scott had crawled lizard-fashion across the floor to get the post before Deirdre ran to take it from him and give it Virgil. Virgil slid it down through the ring and levered the ring with a jerk. It snapped.

Virgil leapt off the mattress, shepherding Deirdre in front of him. Scott, still on his stomach, was already on his way to the shut door of the back room. There would be no going out the windows as they both faced the front. The bastard had mentioned a back room and Scott prayed it had a window, some way of escape. He was almost there when Virgil grabbed the waist of his jeans and hauled him the rest of the way across the floorboards like a sack of potatoes.

"Go. Just go," Scott cried.

"Shut up and help."

Scott could do very little except swear with relief when he saw the back room did have a section of glass but there was barely time to celebrate before they heard a gunshot outside.

"No prizes for guessing," Virgil said.

"It's him or us. He'll kill us. We need a trap. We've got seconds."

The room had the furniture of a fisherman's bedroom. Iron-framed bed, some chairs and a large wardrobe, more nets and fishing gear.

Scott pointed to the wardrobe as he stretched to close the door with his foot. "Up, Virg. I'll get his attention. You drop him."

Virgil threw a chair next to the wardrobe and climbed on top. "Dee. Hide. Get down in this. As low as you can."

Deirdre jumped into the wardrobe and Scott kicked the door shut as he heard the front door slam.

"Tracy!" Driver bellowed.

Scott crawled to the window and heaved a chair through it with all the force he could muster. The effort sent him straight to the floor. The tortured sound of splintering glass echoed in his mind. He had a painful glimpse of that hand coming for him out of the darkness.

The rear room door crashed back on its hinges. Scott cowered and made himself small under the window, turning his face into the sleeve of his shirt so he remained in shadow. At least it was dark where the lantern light didn't penetrate. Scott could see the gun and the hand that held it hesitate just within the threshold of the doorway as if the man was waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

_Come on. Come on. One more step._

Driver took that step.

He didn't know what hit him. Virgil descended on him like the bear he was and flattened him. Scott didn't like to remind his brother of what the consequences a sudden jolt on a trigger finger might be, particularly as he was in the firing line. Scott held his breath, drawing within himself, willing his body into the cracks of the floorboards.

The gun fired. A flame. A _crack._

Scott didn't dare move, didn't even dare check with his senses. He thought he heard the bullet rip into the wall just above him but that was too much like wishful thinking. He waited while Virgil grappled with the gunman, knocked the gun from his grasp and punched him clear into tomorrow.

His brother suddenly stilled, listening. "Scott?"

"Still here." Scott saw Virgil's shoulders relax a fraction as he reached for a net to wrap the unconscious man in. "Dee? You with us?"

Virgil strode to open the wardrobe door. Deirdre was bundled in a ball on the floor, her arms shielding her head and he reached in to pull her out.

"I heard a shot," she whimpered.

"Come on. We're winning. Driver's out of it."

He helped her across to Scott, who still hadn't moved, and she slumped down beside him, trembling.

"I've never been so scared. I'm glad that's over. Thank you so much."

"Don't relax," Virgil said. "We need to get out. Who knows when Rutledge's back or who he'll bring with him."

"The gun," Scott said. "Find it."

Virgil searched around him. "Can't see it."

"Must be."

"Leave it. Just go." Virgil returned to lift Scott to his feet, straighten his clothes and generally support him. "The bastard. The frigging bastard. The way I feel right now, I'd empty the magazine into the guy."

"Fight you for it."

"Hit the road. This guy won't stay down forever."

"Doorman, first. Out front. See if there's anything we can do."

* * *

"They've weighed anchor, Dad," Alan reported from Thunderbird One. In the distance, Jeff could hear the engines of the cutter on the water of Broken Bay. "They're headed upriver. Not out to sea. Repeat. Upriver."

Jeff reached for the com-link. "Forward Base to Thunderbird Two. Receiving me?"

Tin-Tin's soft voice came back. "Thunderbird Two to Forward Base. Go ahead, Mr Tracy."

"Go out to sea and launch Thunderbird Four. But pick up the pod. It's a busy area of shipping. Gordon? You up to manning her?"

"FAB!"

"Brains? Is he clear?"

"Yes, Mr Tracy. The medication should be –uh- inert by now."

"Alan. Pull back and let Gordon follow. We don't want to scare this fellow. If he's going upriver, there's a fair bet they might be going to pick up Scott and Virgil. Good time for you to put down and have a rest. No telling what the day will bring."

"Mr Tracy, keep in mind the –uh- tide is going out. It could get shallow in places."

"Hear that, Gordon."

"No problem. I can go where the cutter can."

"Dad, we've been noticed," John said. "The Central Coast authorities are curious. They want to know the nature of the emergency and if there's anything they can do to help."

Jeff sighed. "Make up something, not too much detail. About locating the source of hoax calls."

Jeff cut the links to the machines and slumped into the back of the car seat to cover his face with his hands. Penelope comforted him.

"They'll be fine, Jeff. Remember our motto. Never give up. And you know none of us will, the least of all your sons."

* * *

"Virgil. Stop," Scott commanded. "Put me down."

In the bush outside the shack, Virgil slowed from a bone-jarring jog to a walk. He had Scott across his shoulders in a fireman's lift. The terrain was rugged rock with roots and tangled shrubs, which made Virgil stumble frequently as he barged through the undergrowth.

"This isn't working. I'm slowing you up. I'm dead weight. We can't risk you. If you go down we're all gone."

"His arm's bleeding," Deirdre said. "He's bled all down your back. The towels are saturated."

"Dee's your priority. Get her to safety. I'll wait."

Virgil was unconvinced. "I can't leave you. Not like this. We're not far enough away."

"Down. For all our sakes. That's an order."

"There must be a way."

"No time, Virg. Do it. It'll be light soon." Scott looked heavenward to take in the lightening of the eastern sky. There was enough light to make out basic features at close range.

"We heard One."

"Get it. I can't do this. Shakes me up too much."

Virgil let his brother slide to the ground. "Hide. Don't walk. You hear me."

"One thing." Scott grabbed the front of Virgil's t-shirt. His mind was full of things he wanted to say. Silly things, really, in a situation like this. The things he'd appreciated about his brother, the things he liked about his brother, really liked about him. All the things he'd wanted to say but hadn't found the courage to reveal. A pride thing, he admitted. He didn't want to appear vulnerable, shallow.

_Sorry__?_ Would that cover it? _Take care__?_

"Scott, is there something?" Virgil searched around him. "If I'm going, I'll have to go, otherwise you're coming."

Scott rested his forehead on his fist that was pulling on Virgil's shirt. Yeah, there were heaps of things only he couldn't catch a starting point, couldn't find the end of the confused ball called life that promised understanding and time had gone.

Scott smirked. "I like your –ah- shoes."

He saw Virgil glance down at his feet with a perplexed expression. They were bare, dirty and showed the consequences of bashing through tough scrub without footwear. Virgil lifted Scott's head to look at him. "I'm not leaving if you're lighting out on me."

Scott met him square in the eye. "Beat it. And hurry it up."

He uncurled his fingers from the material of Virgil's shirt, releasing him, releasing him in more ways than one. Virgil squeezed his shoulder, took Deirdre's arm and Scott watched as Virgil and Deirdre run off into the scrub.

"Bye, Virgil," he said after them.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-three**

Scott had no intention of staying still, despite what Virgil had said. The problem that played on his mind was how to attract the necessary attention to get help. He emptied out the pockets of the pants Martin had loaned him hoping for something to use.

He stopped when his fingers closed around the tiny disfigured representation of his Thunderbird and he noticed for the first time that the model was damaged around the area where he would normally be strapped in. The feel of it in his trembling palm nearly took what little strength there was from his legs but it did give him an idea.

It was all very well for Virgil to search for help. The problem Scott could see was there were no other lights close by to denote people. He couldn't see the sweep of lights against the night sky that would mean a vehicle. The only lights were pinpricks on dark shapes, which he presumed to be a distant foreshore.

The _fucken _stars looked closer.

He had the answer, of course. When Virgil was out of his hearing, he got to his feet and headed back the way they'd come. He trudged slowly, carefully so as not to jar his body any more than necessary. There was no hurry. He needed to go back just on daylight. That would be the optimal time.

He was concentrating on where he put his feet when he was suddenly aware a light was coming towards him. He froze. He watched for several moments. The light swayed in the carrier's hand and Scott could hear a heavy breathing.

It was Driver. Back from the dead so soon. And he held the gun.

_Bad mistake not finding that gun_.

The gunman's attention seemed to be on the ground as he stopped every few yards to examine something. Scott saw him pick up a leaf and hold it to the light of the lantern. Then Scott glanced at his arm and realised Driver was following his blood trail.

_Second bad mistake_.

Scott kept still. He had the advantage. While the man carried the light so close to his face, he would be unable to see Scott in the dim light. Scott had his night sight and he sat down to conserve his energy. He waited, barely breathing as the man passed just to his left.

It took all his self-control not to want to throttle the man but he knew he wouldn't stand a chance. His priority was to make sure Virgil and Deirdre got help. Number one.

Scott limped on to the shack without a backward glance. It was easy to see where he was going now, the streaks of red in the sky reflected just as strongly in the stillness of the water as in his mind's eye. The _crack_ of sap settling in the branches above him made him wary, the high-pitched drill of the cicadas put his teeth on edge. He knew what he'd find when he went back. Doorman. Dead outside the shack.

Scott had been sorry to discover this, earlier. Doorman had saved him from a fate he had no wish to consider. He struggled to drag the dead man away from the building, feeling the strain was taking its own toll. He staggered over to the shack and, with a thousand misgivings, went back in. He threw the fluid for the lantern onto the mattress that they'd been on. If he stopped to think, he could have thought so many things at that moment so he went about his task in a mechanical, dead-faced manner.

Virgil and Deirdre. They had to be safe.

He stared down at the small shape in his hand, remembering what Rutledge had shown them. It was a cigarette lighter. Scott fumbled with the wheel positioned where Thunderbird One's thrusters normally were and hoped it worked. There was a flash and a tiny flame ignited the back end of his machine.

_Thunderbirds are go_, he thought bitterly.

He touched the flame from the lighter to the fabric of the mattress and stood back to watch as the fire consumed it. When he was satisfied the fire had taken, he retreated into the bush to watch his handiwork. He looked down at what he had picked up on his way out. Now he had something to even the odds.

_Driver, you just made one damn-all fatal mistake_.

* * *

By first light, Virgil and Deirdre had reached the farthest point of land. All around them, front and two sides, was water. The next land was a dark shape on the eastern horizon. It would be a long swim to reach it.

"You said you know this waterway. This an island, you think?" Virgil climbed around the rocks so he could see to the south. This end of the promontory resembled a bag of jacks that had split, the odd-shaped boulders spilling out haphazardly into the water.

"I'm beginning to think it might be. There's dozens of them. This far out, maybe it is. Damn. We'll have to swim for it."

Virgil considered the layout of the bay with more determination while Deirdre perched like a cormorant on a nearby rock. "Do you think you can swim? To that land mass on the horizon?"

"The tide's running. We could end up in the Pacific Ocean."

Virgil muttered something about anywhere being better than where they were.

"I think Scott wanted to tell you something," Deirdre said and Virgil glanced at her. "I think it was really important."

Virgil didn't want to think too much about Scott. "My objective right now is to get help. The rest can wait."

"I don't think you –we – should've left him."

"It was his choice."

"Is he in any fit condition to make that choice? I'm sorry, Virgil – I'm worried. He was saying something, I could see it. I've seen that look before. He was…he was…I don't know if it's the right word – surrendering?"

"You don't know, Scott. Scott won't give up. Not for anything."

"I'm not sure if that's what I meant…"

"Let's concentrate on this. Scott'll be okay, you'll see. While he keeps still, his condition should be stable in the short term." Virgil had his own idea of what Scott was saying and he wasn't going to share it. He was too shit-scared to contemplate it. "The sooner we get him help, the better."

Deirdre stood up and pointed to the south-east. "What's that?"

Virgil felt like grinning for the first time that week. An extremely large airborne vehicle appeared over the horizon.

"That, Deirdre, is my beautiful machine. That is Thunderbird Two. My designated craft."

They both watched as it lazed in the air above the water.

"Wow. It's big. And it's – green. Who would be driving it, if you're not?"

"I fly it. It's an aircraft. A couple of possibilities. Gordon, maybe."

"Gordon can fly that?"

"I'll bet Gordon's in the water. By the way Two's turning so smoothly, I'd say it's Tin-Tin or Brains."

"What's it doing?"

Virgil pointed. "See that white craft out in the main waterway? Two is circling it. Why, I'm not sure. Maybe that's Rutledge. Maybe that's why Rutledge hasn't come back. Now, all we need to work out is how to get Two over here."

Deirdre cupped her eyes with her hands and swung around to look behind them. Smoke billowed across the top of the trees and out over the water. "Fire!"

Virgil also stood up, hands on his hips. "That should do it. I'll bet that's my brother's doing."

"I hope to hell he realises how flammable the Australian bush is. A fire in the scrub here will go like a nuclear explosion. He won't stand a chance."

* * *

"Thunderbird Two to –uh- Forward Base. Mr Tracy come in."

Jeff wiped the weariness from his eyes. He'd barely left the cabin of FAB One all night. "Go ahead, Brains."

"We're picking up –uh- a significant heat source. The smoke's visible –uh- on the western quarter of the island. A large fire –uh- by all accounts. Should we investigate?"

"Gordon? Where are you?"

"Sitting on the bottom, right up the bast – er - the cutter's stern."

"Okay, Brains. Take a look. Be quick. If it's not our concern, get John to radio the local fire department."

Tin-Tin didn't have to be told to change course to take the craft higher and in a wide arc over to the island almost central to a small bay off the river system proper.

"What do you think, Brains? Could it be them?" she said.

"Well, if I wanted to –uh- get attention, it would be –uh- a good way to do it."

"Oh, I hope it's them. I hope so."

Thunderbird Two made a low sweep over the fire.

"It's –uh- a building. Well engaged. It's spread to –uh- the surrounding greenery."

"Douse it, Brains?"

"If there's anyone –uh- down there they would be –uh- at risk but the scanners –uh- appear clear."

"Dropping dicetylene on next pass. Priming pumps." Tin-Tin took Thunderbird Two in a low sweep of the island.

"Tin-Tin. I see –uh- movement. At the –uh- southern end."

"Is it them?"

"Picking up two."

Tin-Tin's hopeful expression dampened. "Only two?"

"Take care of the fire first, Tin-Tin."

Thunderbird Two came in low, hovered and dumped foam directly into the seat of the fire. The fire went out in a black ball. Tin-Tin wasn't hanging around. She swung the craft back over the water.

"I see them. I see them. They're waving. It could be Virgil." She moved the vessel in closer, careful not to disturb them with the jets. "The rescue capsule, Brains?"

"Wait. There's someone –uh- else."

"Scott?"

"Instruments picking up small –uh- arms fire."

"At us?"

"We can't lower the capsule. It would be –uh- a target." Brains turned to the radio. "Thunderbird Two to Forward Base. We've found Virgil but we need help. Send Gordon."

* * *

When Thunderbird Two passed overhead, Scott had that vulnerable feeling a mouse might have when an eagle swoops. The huge shadow of the craft lingered, blotting out the sky above him. He didn't acknowledge it. He had something more urgent on his mind. He heard gunshots. And not too far in the distance. His own welfare didn't count at that moment. Virgil and Deirdre were so close to safety, nothing must stop them.

He had to find Driver and dispose of him.

* * *

Virgil and Deirdre jumped up and down on the rocks, waved and shouted at the magnificent machine standing just off the island. Virgil knew they could see them even if they stood still but it felt so bloody good to be able to express his joy.

"Can they come down and get us?" Deirdre asked, crying a mixture of relief and anxiety.

"Sure."

"Then what are they waiting for?"

* * *

Scott could see Driver scramble around the rocks on the edge where the boulders dived into the sea. He saw Thunderbird Two fire its rockets to change from hover to flight. It was going to make another circuit. Driver was not more than a dozen yards ahead of him. Further along, Scott could see Virgil and Deirdre. They were watching as Two made another sweep of the island. Scott's anxiety level hit the roof when Driver stopped and aimed his gun at the pair. Scott raised his own weapon. He had to take Driver out. He had to stop him. But there were far too many trees and he couldn't get a clear shot. He almost sobbed with the frustration of it.

"Virgil! Look out!" he yelled.

And he did the only thing he could do. He fired a couple of rounds in an attempt to distract Driver.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-four**

Virgil heard the distant shout of warning from Scott. He ducked as he looked up, searching for the source of the threat. At the same time he stumbled. He felt something hit his upper arm, like being belted with the flat end of a stick. A millisecond later, he heard the retort of a firearm. Virgil moved. He leapt for Deirdre, sweeping her to one side and launching them into the water in one long, exaggerated, falling movement.

Deirdre gasped and half-squealed as they hit the water together. Virgil, at that moment, was only relieved they'd missed any submerged rocks. She spluttered when they surfaced and he propelled them towards the shelter of rocks further out.

"What, Virgil? What?"

"Don't fight." He held her tightly against him in an attempt to protect her from further danger.

"What are you doing?" Then she choked. "Blood. There's blood."

"It's okay, it's not serious."

"You? That gunshot?" She immediately tried to see what had happened but Virgil stopped her.

"Keep still, it's nothing." Virgil tried to look back towards the shore. "What I need you to do is stay calm. Okay? Driver's up on the cliff but I think these rocks will shield us."

As Virgil watched Thunderbird Two make another pass over the island, Deirdre was suddenly anything but calm. She screamed full voice in his ear.

* * *

Scott saw Driver take the shot and he saw his brother stagger before disappearing into the water with Deirdre.

_Virgil..._

His cry for his brother died in his throat. Hadn't his father warned him? Instead of taking Virgil back to Bonga where Virgil would be safe, his father had kept his brother with him as company. As comfort. For him.

He knew Virgil had been hit. He understood Virgil had been hurt because of him. Again. _W__here and how badly?_

Scott was shocked to find he was flat on his face, not having remembered falling, but he did have the bastard in his sights. He shook with rage. The bastard would hurt those he cared about, would he?

Just as he rolled into position to get a clear shot at Driver and took aim with Doorman's weapon, he noticed the breech on the gun he held was retracted. That meant one of two things; either the gun was jammed or it was empty. A lightning check confirmed the latter and Scott cursed the universe apart.

He kept up the tirade until the shadow of Thunderbird Two blanketed him before a stream of water descended from the heavens. One minute Driver stood on the cliff in front of him and the next the gunman was gone.

* * *

In the water, Virgil grunted as Deirdre struggled against him, the sound of her scream still ringing in his ears. Then he felt the unnatural churn of the water and heard the hum of motors behind him. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Deirdre, it's okay. It's the good guys. Thunderbird Four. It's Gordon."

She stopped fighting. Thunderbird Four had surfaced not far from them. The yellow submarine bobbed serenely behind them, water cascading from its fins, intakes and forward cabin structure.

"Gordon?"

Virgil kept a wary eye on the headland as he swam them out to the craft. The top hatch opened and Gordon, in full uniform and brandishing a semi-automatic rifle, climbed out to stand with his feet spread. He raised the scoped rifle and adjusted the sight.

"Virgil. Deirdre. It's okay. Thunderbird Two's taken the gunman out. I can see him. He's floating in the water. I don't think he's a threat but I'll cover you to make sure."

"Virgil's been shot!" Deirdre said but Virgil was quick to reassure his brother he was all right.

Virgil hauled himself up and they changed places, Gordon passing the rifle over to Virgil. Gordon dropped down over the intakes to pull Deirdre out of the water. He lifted her and helped her up the side and inside the craft. Virgil slipped down after them, snapping the hatch shut above him. It was suddenly quiet and safe. Virgil would have been relieved except for one omission.

"Scott?" Gordon asked. "Where's Scott?"

* * *

Scott was at that moment prostrate on the rocks. After he watched Virgil and Deirdre make it into Thunderbird Four under Gordon's watchful eye, he was overcome by a wave of emptiness. His job was done. His mission finally accomplished.

Virgil and Deirdre were safe.

He guessed it was relief, only it didn't feel like his burdens had eased. He was somewhere beyond exhaustion and he reckoned he'd used up his lives. If all a cat was granted was nine, who was he to think he deserved more?

* * *

"Scott's up there somewhere. I heard him shout," Virgil said in answer to Gordon's question when they made it aboard Thunderbird Four.

"Two'll find him. Don't worry, they'll take care of him. Now, Virgil?" Gordon reached out to him but Virgil indicated Deirdre. Deirdre stood, shaking like jelly, staring around her as if being inside a Thunderbird machine was just another shock.

"Okay, you first, Dee. Virgil wants to play the tough guy." Gordon assisted Deirdre into the tiny sick bay and pulled a treatment table down from the bulkhead between the air lock and the forward cabin.

"Oh, your face." She reached to touch near his blackening eye.

Virgil padded in after him, wringing water from his track pants. "Gordon, that's magnificent."

"Hubert found out I was a Tracy."

Deirdre looked up at him. "Who would want to hurt you? You're so strong and brave."

"I think she's delirious," Virgil said. "Shock and all that."

Gordon encouraged her onto the bed, laid her on her side and pulled a blanket over her. "Don't worry, Dee. We'll have you feeling better in no time."

Virgil slumped onto the attendant's stool, head in hands.

"Right, your turn. Where'd you get it?" Gordon said to Virgil.

Virgil indicated the top of his left arm and tugged at the sleeve of his t-shirt in an effort to see for himself. Gordon frowned as he examined the wound.

"Lucky for you it's only a crease and not too deep. I'll bet it stings like the blazes."

Virgil nodded. "Starting to."

He winced when Gordon swabbed it, pressed gauze over it then wrapped it in a bandage. Gordon went to drape a blanket around Virgil's large shoulders.

"Are you sure that's all?"

"Huh?"

"Looks like blood all down your back."

Virgil pulled at his shirt further to look. "Oh that. Scott's, not mine."

Gordon's frown deepened. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"One reason why we need to find him – and fast."

"Okay, relax. Two will find him, I'll take care of Dee. That burn on her arm looks nasty."

"I'll go up and see what's doing with Scott. Yell, if you need me."

Virgil limped up the front to hear the talk on the communication link more clearly. He dropped into Gordon's seat, flexing his sore shoulder, suddenly aware how tired he really was. He opened a link to John.

"Virg! Welcome back."

A round of voices crowed in after John's, his father's last then he was aware Tin-Tin was asking him a question.

"How many others are on the island?"

Virgil stood up, staring out through the front visual screen up at the cliffs in front of them. "Scott should be the only one left unless the other guy's still alive. Can't you find him? Surely the scanners?"

"We're picking up one –uh- other life form but it's unusual," Brains said. "The man who fell from the cliff –uh- is floating in the sea. This other one is not –uh- acknowledging us in any way. In fact, he's moving –uh- away from us."

"Scott would wave if he could. I'm sure he would. Any other boat moored nearby?"

"Negative," Tin-Tin said.

"But if that's not Scott, where is he? Can you get a visual?"

"What's the problem?" his father asked.

"We're not sure where Scott is," Virgil said. "The only person left on the ground is not acknowledging Two."

"He's moving," Tin-Tin said. "It's hard to see through the trees. Brains has the scope on him."

"It looks like –uh- Scott. I'm picking –uh- up the colour red if that means –uh- anything. If it –uh- is Scott, he would know we can see him. He's still moving away."

Virgil sat down heavily, his fists clenched. _Idiot. _"Leave him to me. I'll get him, Dad. I think I know what's wrong."

"Wrong? What do you mean wrong?"

Virgil steeled himself. "Dad, I need you to tell me something. I need you to tell me what you said to Scott."

"What do you mean?"

"Scott said to me about not coming back, that he's the Great Tracy Disappointment, that you told him he was a disappointment. I need to know what you said to him."

"This is neither the time nor the place, son."

"I must know."

"Get Scott back here. Then we'll discuss it."

"I am not going to drag him back if you're going to make him feel guilty for what is not his fault. That girl ran out in front of him. Martin was there. There was no way Scott could have avoided her."

"Amber told me, Virgil. We'll discuss this in private when Scott's home."

"If you want your son back, you'll tell me what you said to him," Virgil said into the comm-link. Then added. "Please."

There was a long silence. He turned in his seat to see Gordon shut the partition between him and the sick bay.

His father cleared his throat. "I told him I was disappointed in the decisions he had made that day. I did not say he was a disappointment. I only said the decisions he made were disappointing."

"Dad, he is the decision-maker. _Decisions_ is what he does. He wouldn't understand the difference."

"I'll make it up to him. Get him, Virgil. Please."

Virgil stood up, tossing aside his blanket. "Tin-Tin, leave him to me."

"He's walking towards the eastern side of the island about one hundred yards from where the gunman fell. We'll go back to watch the cutter. Radio if you need us. Good luck."

"Thanks."

He had the feeling he was going to need it.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-five**

Scott was surprised when Thunderbird Two left its hover above him. He watched it fly back over the bay towards the white craft that seemed to be getting nearer to the island. They wouldn't give up that easily. They would know where he was.

He wanted to know how badly Virgil was hurt but he couldn't face going back, not yet. He wanted to be there to support his brother but he didn't think he had it left in him. His younger brother could shoulder some extra responsibility for a change. Gordon was more than capable. He needed to sit down and just be for awhile. Maybe lie down. At least do something different from what he was doing because he couldn't do it for much longer.

They could manage – without him.

He staggered on until he couldn't walk another step. Using a rock as support, he went to ground, fully believing he may not rise again. He was done. Finished.

He fingered the model Nicholas had treasured.

Words circled in his brain like a royal proclamation. The pictures of his grand fall had been broadcast to the world. He'd humiliated his family and brought their lifework into disrepute. Would their organisational head have him back was the key question. He'd never thought for one moment he'd be the one. Scott Jefferson Tracy. Embarrassment. Failure. Disappointment. If Martin was dead, so was he. His defence shattered. His arm useless. He couldn't fly his precious Thunderbird. Worst of all, the family didn't believe him. Didn't believe in him. Wasn't that what Virgil was saying by considering Rutledge's point of view?

So, who would he be without what he did? Who was he – now?

He placed the two objects he carried on the rock in front of him. The pistol and the model of Thunderbird One.

Was Rutledge right about him in some perverse way? Hanging out for the approval of his peers? His siblings? The previous generation? Trying to hold onto something he could no longer have? Was that the name he now deserved? Rutledge. Not Tracy.

He considered the misshapen model then let his fingers wander to the pistol, feeling the weapon's potential, the promise in its hardness.

Future? What was his future? He stared longingly at the pistol…until he thought of the two young people he had unwittingly affected and what their lives had meant.

* * *

Virgil scooted across the rocks to where Driver had fallen from the cliffs. From an enormous sense of humanity, he paused a moment to feel for a pulse. None. The fall had killed him. Virgil dragged him onto the rocks, scaled the rock barrier and ran on to find Scott. He sprinted through the undergrowth, slashing aside the branches and blackberries to where Thunderbird Two had last sighted him. Scott couldn't be far but he knew it would be a waste of breath to call out. Scott wouldn't answer him.

He paused a moment to decide which direction to take. Tin-Tin had said he was travelling east. He went that way, saw a single droplet of blood and knew he was on the right track.

Two minutes later he saw him. Scott was slumped against a boulder with his head drooped in front of it like he was praying. Then Virgil saw something that made his blood run cold. Scott's left arm rested on the top of the rock. In his left hand was a pistol. Aimed for his temple.

"Scott, no! For mercy's sake, don't do it! Please!"

Scott didn't move at the sound of his voice. Virgil leapt for his brother and swept his gun hand to one side, expecting at any second to hear that fateful sound. There was only silence. He found Scott was barely conscious, his face leaning on the rock.

Scott murmured when Virgil grabbed him. "I didn't… I wasn't…"

"No, you fuckenwell didn't and thank the frigging stars for that." Virgil pulled his brother's limp form to his own and held him. Then he noticed the gun Scott held was inoperable and he said a few more choice things under his breath as he prised the weapon from Scott's grasp.

"I'm a Tracy," Scott said.

"Huh, what's that?"

Scott tried to smile. "She told me."

"Come on, we need to get you—"

"She said I'm a Tracy."

"Who, buddy? What are you talking about? I think you're—."

"Mom," Scott whispered. "She came. I saw her." Scott was quiet for a moment and Virgil thought he'd passed out. "You think I'm still a Tracy?" he finally added.

"You're a Tracy and I'm a Tracy, I guess that means we're related."

"Sure?"

Virgil rocked him. "You scared the crap out of me with that firearm, you big shit."

Scott grinned.

* * *

In Thunderbird Four, Gordon sat with Deirdre to reassure her she was safe but his mind was elsewhere, waiting impatiently for word from Virgil. The comms were silent. He supposed that was a positive – or was it? The amount of residue blood down Virgil's back had him worried, particularly after Scott's heavy bleed at the accident site.

"So, I'm really in a Thunderbird machine?" Deirdre asked him. "For real? I haven't gone crazy or something?"

What Gordon could see was a bedraggled creature who shook from reaction and had put water all over his table but who was basically intact. "Not that I've noticed."

She blew out her lips, looked around her warily and rubbed her jaw where a sizeable red mark was darkening. "You know, we match." She indicated his face. "So, when do you get out of uniform? Have you ever considered pearling off Broome? Or chasing marlin out from Bermie? Maybe counting seals south of Maatsuyker? Yes? No?" Gordon grinned and Deirdre groaned. "Don't tell me you're going to disappear and I'll never see you again. Right? I've heard that's what you IR guys do."

"That's unlikely, seeing as you know so much about us."

"So, what? You going to dispatch me? Weighted down with the next load of kittens?"

Gordon laughed, despite being appalled by the idea.

She shrugged. "Can't blame a girl for trying." Then her gaze dropped to the sheets while her fingers twisted the material. "Any word on Martin? Did he – make it?"

Gordon hesitated. She'd just been through an ordeal and he didn't want to stress her further. He believed he knew what the answer would be.

"It's okay," she said and sighed. "I kind of expect bad news. A word either way would relieve my mind. Stop me wondering, you know."

He raised his watch to his lips and asked John.

"Not a chance, Squirt. I know you worked hard on him. Aorta was blown. He was dead before—"

Gordon tried to cover the watch to muffle the sound of his brother's voice. "Not alone here. Someone with a vested interest."

There were a few seconds of silence before John said, "Ms Stewart, I'm so sorry. Cutting out my tongue, now."

A single tear slid down Deirdre's face and Gordon reached out to take her hand.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-six**

Scott slithered down onto the floor of Thunderbird Four and lay in a pool of water and blood. It had taken both of his brothers to manhandle him into the submarine. He was told he was a lot heavier than Deirdre. The air lock was designed for rescues in water, not above the surface, hence their difficulty. Gordon had eased him down into the vessel and he came down in two parts. The great mass of towels that had been around his arm dropped first with a _splatter_ then the rest of him followed.

"Holy shit. What a mess." Gordon did look shocked.

"Sorry, Gordo. I'll help you wash the floor."

"I meant your arm."

Scott pointed at Gordon's face. "One thing Virg and I learnt. Never let Dee near hapless gunmen. Not her handiwork, I hope."

"I heard you, you cheeky bugger," Deirdre said from the sick bay.

Virgil and Gordon lifted Scott from the floor and carried him into the sick bay to put him on the bed.

"Back again," Deirdre said as she moved aside to let them into the small space, clutching her blanket closer around her.

"Some crap about being important," he muttered. "You okay?"

"I will be now I know you're all right."

Scott shivered and Gordon was quick to cover him with a thermal blanket.

"We need to get fluid into him," Gordon whispered aside to Virgil as he pulled an oxygen mast over Scott's face. "Fast. He might be too low to find a vein. I'll do a blind stick. Raise his feet. See if that helps his BP, if not we could try the MAST suit. He may need a transfuse. Get these wet clothes off. He's mighty cold."

"No, leave them," Scott murmured, wincing when he felt the salt water penetrate into his arm.

"Relax, just relax," Gordon soothed. "You're losing too much body heat. We need to get you dry."

Scott fended him off and pulled at the oxygen mask. "Don't touch my clothes."

"Scott, it's okay. Everything's going to all right. Let us take care of you."

Scott rolled restlessly on the bed. "Don't touch me. Please, don't touch me."

Gordon frowned uncertainly at Virgil.

"How about I do it?" Virgil said to Scott. "Gordon'll see to Dee. Okay?"

Scott didn't agree or disagree. His arm became an all-consuming conflagration.

"What's wrong, buddy?"

"_Burning_."

"Salt water's a bitch," Gordon said.

Virgil reached for a bottle of distilled water. "Irrigating your arm, now."

It took them many minutes of work before Scott was comfortable. When the brothers did finally relax, Virgil said. "I'll let them know he's on board and that we need an urgent medical hook up."

Deirdre muttered away to herself, "No-one is ever going to believe me. This is unreal. I can't even believe it myself."

"You all right, Dee?" Scott said dreamily. "Not beyond you, is it? I can fix that. Only I wouldn't give it in your arm."

Deirdre raised up so her elbow rested on the bed. "You're in no position to give lip, Scotty-boy. I could go another round. What about you? You're looking pretty terrible."

"S-ure."

She sighed very loudly. "Blimey. You heroes must be thick or something. I'm going to find myself a nice deserted island and never leave it." She chuckled then, and he smiled with her.

Maybe she had a point. He closed his eyes and willingly succumbed to that which was invading his eyes from the edges.

* * *

Jeff felt two hundred pounds lighter when Virgil conveyed the news that Scott was on board. A collective cheer echoed around the communication equipment.

"Er, Dad," John called abruptly. "I have Commander Rutledge."

"How did he contact you?"

"He made an emergency call direct through International Rescue. He demanded to be put through to you. I told him that you weren't connected with IR and that I would find your number for him. Put him through to the vidphone?"

"Without the visual." Jeff heard the click of exchange. "You're out of luck, Commander Rutledge."

"You don't have your sons back, yet, Tracy. If you haven't noticed I have that yellow submersible boxed in. It can't come closer without being blown out of the water. I promise you I will do it. So, you're the head of International Rescue. Well, well."

Jeff was in FAB One. The car sat on the water at a distance from the danger zone but within visual range. He scanned with the binoculars to see the cutter had moved while they'd been distracted by what had taken place on the island.

"International Rescue is nothing to do with us. They've responded to an anonymous call."

Rutledge laughed. "No-one will believe that. You've made a strategic blunder, this time. You can see the media presence is building. I understand the police launch is on its way. Any longer and the world will want to know what International Rescue is doing. If you care to notice the cutter is positioned central to the channel. I warn you. If that submersible comes anywhere within range, it will be destroyed. If you attempt an air rescue, my forward gun will pick you off. You have until the tide returns then my craft will move in and destroy that sub. Or, you can release Scott to me and the others will live. Simple exchange."

"No deal. I only have to say the word and a law enforcement team will board you."

"I'd welcome them. They'll see no-one's on board. I'll complain of harassment. After all the publicity, frankly Tracy, you can't afford more bad press. It's simple. Scott, for the craft and the lives of those aboard her. You know any delay will jeopardise his future. You've already lost him. He won't return to you. Not willingly, so you may as well hand him over."

"Your wife is on her way, Commander. Maybe she can talk sense into you."

Rutledge cut the connection without further comment.

Jeff turned back to the internal com links. "Right, we need a plan. John, what are we up against? What's the cutter's load? Can he carry out his threat?"

"Not according to the standard equipment charts I've got here for that class of vessel. AN/SPS-64 surface search and navigation radar, one 25mm Bushmaster and two 12.7 mm MGs."

"It wasn't brought all the way to Australia for a repaint," Gordon said.

"Commander Rutledge is no fool," Jeff said. "He must have something."

"I'll see what I can find out," John said.

"Have you found maps of the navigational channels?"

"While you were speaking. I have full satellite imaging. There's two problems. The depth of the water and the distribution of oyster leases. This bay is full of areas where they farm oysters. Navigation is limited, particularly at low tide."

"Couldn't I blast my way through those structures with the lasers?" Gordon asked. "What are they made of?"

"According to my search, wood, metal and plastic."

"No problem."

"There's acres of them. Even if you blast your way through them, it would be slow going. The cutter'll have time to work out where you're headed and cut you off. You're looking at a state-of-the-art pursuit craft."

"How much water does this vessel need?" Jeff said.

"Those beauties are designed to be fast and very manoeuvrable," Gordon agreed.

"Draught 11 feet," John said.

Gordon came back quickly. "But I can get around it, you watch me."

"We could wait for high tide and Gordon could skim over the top of those things," Alan said.

"We can't wait," Virgil cut in. "Scott's not good. We _can't_ wait."

"What about the grabs?" Alan said. "Two could come in and pluck —."

"Bad idea," Virgil said. "Too damn close. The Bushmaster is anti-aircraft. Two's thrusters would be riddled before —."

"Four can take whatever Commander Rutledge could throw at us," Gordon said hotly. "Let him try. I could motor straight past him."

"Four's infrastructure may take –uh- it," Brains said. "But you have –uh- injured on board. Will Scott?"

"Does anyone else have a better idea?"

* * *

Scott was perturbed by the silence. He wondered where he could be where there was so little sound. As he listened, he picked up what he thought was breathing and wondered if it was his own. He opened his eyes to discover he was staring at the ceiling of Thunderbird Four. So why couldn't he hear the sound of her engines? Why was he still there?

He pulled back the oxygen mask. "What happened?"

He heard the rustle of fabric and Deirdre's voice was airy, upbeat, beside him. "We're stuck."

He tried to move, which translated into a groan, and Virgil came running from the forward deck.

"What's wrong?" Scott said.

"Slight problem. Rutledge's got us cornered. He's threatening to blow us out of the water unless he gets you."

"What's he got?"

"We're not sure. We don't think he'd make the threat unless he could carry it out. Dad doesn't want to risk a confrontation to find out. We're trying to thrash out a plan. So far negotiation has failed. Any ideas?"

"Simple. Give him what he wants. Problem solved." Scott made an effort to drag his exhausted body up off the bed but Virgil was quick to restrain him.

"That offer to slug you still stands."

Scott tried unsuccessfully to push Virgil's hands away. "Not going to risk you guys. I've used up my lives. Maybe my name should be Rutledge. He's making more sense than I am."

"You even think about getting off this table and I will break out the restraints. Guaranteed. Deirdre, you have my permission."

"Understood," Deirdre said. "What about the –um- slug part?"

"Scott?"

Scott gave up, letting what little part of him he did manage to raise from the horizontal fall back with a defeated sigh. "All right. All right. Tell Gordon this bed's lousy."

"We like you, too," Gordon said from up the front.

Virgil adjusted the bedding around him. "In the Services, what would they do?"

Scott rolled his head away so he didn't have to look at his brother.

"What about the Services?" Virgil pressed.

Scott closed his eyes.

"Come on. An idea."

Scott shifted his position to stretch on the narrow bed, not finding any way to lie that was comfortable while every part of him seemed to either hurt, ache or throb. "Well, I guess, in a situation like this, taking the offence is your best defence. He may not expect Four to be armed."

Virgil raised his watch to his lips. "Hear that, Dad."

"Welcome back, son," Jeff said immediately, Scott realising then he'd been listening all the time. "We're mighty relieved you're still with us. What's your idea?"

Hearing his father's voice so clearly in the tiny medical unit surprised him and with it came a small degree of alarm. What was his father really thinking? Was he relieved?

"I'm grounded, remember," Scott whispered to Virgil, experiencing that sensation of breathlessness again.

"You're not useless. Come on, tell us what you think."

"Don't ask. My decision, my responsibility. We're full circle. We're back where we started. What if one of us is lost this time? I can't. Not like this. Rutledge can have me. That's my solution."

"There's things we need to discuss when you get home, son," Jeff said. "How about you tell us your idea and if we all agree, we'll use it. That way it'll be a joint decision."

Yeah, he bet there were things they needed to discuss. Like how soon he needed to have his belongings off Tracy Island. Scott was silent for a moment, wrestling to keep his thoughts focussed. "Well – taking the offensive is your only way out of this," he said, his voice sounding thin and uncertain even to him.

"There's quite a crowd watching," Virgil said. "Not a good look to have a Thunderbird craft go after a non-aggressive vessel."

"Rutledge is dependent on his ship. Disable or destroy the ship in any way and we're free. I'll bet he assumes IR doesn't attack. We know that's not true. Deirdre, don't listen to this. An airborne attack is out of the question but Gordon could disable it. No-one will see what's done below the surface. Disable its engines. That's all we need."

"The craft's hull is strengthened for work in the Arctic Circle."

"Gordo'll have to get close. What are they carrying?"

"John thinks they've only got surface to air."

"Then so long as he doesn't penetrate the surface."

"The water's clear and it's shallow. He might be seen."

"One and Two can to act as a diversion. A coastguard vessel'll have deck guns. The water cannon was effective on the island. Use that so they can't see what Gordon's doing. Alan could do a dummy run to get their interest. Then Tin-Tin can follow up with the cannon. That would enable Gordon to get into position. Keep Rutledge guessing as to what we're going to do. Confuse, distract and disable. That's the strategy."

"Well?" Jeff asked the others and there was a minute of discussion. "Vote?" The plan was accepted unanimously. "All right. Go, Gordon."


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-seven**

Gordon sat stiff-backed in his pilot's seat. He stared at his controls and was a little perturbed the readouts on his instrumentation were slightly blurry. His injured eye was starting to swell and weep.

"Ready when you give the signal," his father said.

"You all right, Gordon?" Virgil asked.

"Feels wrong to attack a coastguard vessel and we've forgotten one thing. We have a civilian on board."

"Well, she is our sister, after all. We can't off-load her. No way is either of them going back in the water."

"_Sister__?_"

Virgil grinned. "Not in the genetic sense. In the collective care of humanity sense."

"Oh." Gordon looked at Virgil. "Okay back there?"

"Scott's borrowed a spare IR hat. Said he felt naked without it."

"You sure he's up to this? This could get rough."

"No, but what choice do we have?"

"Okay, Alan." Scott spoke softly. Professionally cool. "Commence your run. Wait for them to fire first. And Al, if One gets ack-ack in her skin, you know what'll happen."

"Sure Scott, I'll help you fix it."

Scott chuckled. "Gordon, hold the surface until the target is distracted."

Gordon watched as Thunderbird One fired her rockets, sprinted off into the distance then came round low on a screaming arc. One rolled like a seal, yawed to the right, rose high then came straight towards the target in a steep dive. Alan pulled off at the last minute and flew way out over the bay. It was a delight to watch. Thunderbird One was as graceful as an egret, as responsive as a feather in a breeze. Everyone watched as it came over the surface of the water, past the ship with feet to spare, covering it in exhaust. Alan took it into a magnificent arc high into the sky then came round again to narrowly miss it on the opposite side.

"He's showing off," Gordon said.

There was no response from the ship.

"Again," Scott croaked as he coughed lightly.

Alan went through the same routine again. "Man, dig these g-forces."

Nothing.

"Lower the gun and come to a screaming halt in front of the bridge."

Alan did as he was instructed, bringing Thunderbird One to stop on a dime right before the watching crew members.

"No self-respecting military man will stand for this," Alan reported a little breathlessly then whooped. "They're running for the guns!"

"Make an attack run but don't shoot."

Alan fired the rockets and took his craft on a horizontal flight parallel with the water at the ship's height. It came straight at the ship. At the last minute he rolled it again and took it behind the bridge. The guns followed and took out their own windows in the fire.

"Engaged!" Alan shouted as he took One past the ship again.

"Right. Tin-Tin," Scott said, coughing. "Clear the deck with the water cannon. Brains, watch for stray fire. You're exposed in Two's bay."

"The MGs are high on the bridge structure," Alan said. "One on either side."

A dual FAB came down the link.

Gordon watched the giant transporter replace Thunderbird One over the ship. The water cannon doused the forward gun then, when the crew ran for cover, he could see the aim shift to the bridge windows and the guns aft of them.

"As soon as they're blind," Scott whispered to Gordon.

"Got it from here."

"When that cannon's dry, One and Two stand-off but close enough to keep their interest. Keep them guessing as to what going to do next. Gordon, watch those fuel tanks. We don't want an environ…ment…"

"Scott?" Virgil said.

"M-mm."

"I'll be okay now, big brother," Gordon said. "Leave this to me. You rest."

Gordon sat tensely, his hands gripped around the steering panels, his gaze riveted on the target area ahead. He brushed water from his injured eye and hoped to hell he'd be able to see it.

"Okay," Brains shouted. "We're about out."

"Diving now," Gordon said, flipping a switch to empty the ballast of air.

"Gordon." John's sharp voice made him flinch. "The _Fearless _is sub ready. That's the reason for the refit. Under the new Coastguard's _Below Water_ funding program to combat terrorist threats. I've just found it. I haven't been able to get specs. Be careful."

Once Gordon had dived to find the bottom, Thunderbird Four leapt forward under full power.

"They're lowering a –uh- large cylindrical device –uh- into the water," Brains said. "I would suggest it's—."

"Sonar!" Gordon said. "Shit!"

Gordon brought the submersible to a swift halt and let it settle towards the rocks on the bottom. His eyes scanned the instruments and port visual looking for the edge of structures that were keeping them captive. He steered Four towards their edge, coming to rest against them and turned off the motors.

"What are you doing?" Virgil said.

Gordon reached for his phones and squashed them over his ears. "Finding out what type. The ship's looking for us. I'm making it harder for them to find us. I'll wait for the ping. Normally I can get under it but it's too shallow here. Everybody. Radio silence. Immediately."

There was a moment of absolute quiet and it was broken only when Scott coughed. Gordon frowned, ripping off his phones when a loud ping deafened him.

"Active," Virgil said. "That's better for us, isn't it?"

"I can use the motors until we get in range and the ping gives me an exact target reading."

"That doesn't mean they don't have the other."

"Sure needed to hear that, bro." Gordon picked up the phones. "If they're targeting subs, they might have passive as well. Alan? Anyone? I can hear the cutter's motors. What's it doing?"

"It's coming around. Its bow's facing you," Alan said.

"A panel's opening up on deck," Tin-Tin said. "Oh, be careful Gordon."

"What is it?"

"Another gun but not one I've seen."

"Are you in range, son?" his father said.

"Not enough to damage it. I'll get closer. You'll see."

"It fired a net," Alan yelled. "The biggest damn thing I've ever seen."

Gordon and Virgil stared above them, waiting to see it sink around them.

"Pretty good shooting," Gordon said. "Trying to foul the screws. Mega-size net gun. That's a new development. Didn't know they had them for subs."

"Watch your –uh- intakes," Brains said.

Gordon backed up as the net headed for the bottom and he destroyed it with a blast from the laser.

"You'll have to do better than that!" Gordon yelled at the top of his voice. "Didn't even get close!"

"Gordo?" Virgil whispered.

"Just in case they're listening."

Gordon let the craft creep forward.

"Hang on," Alan said. "Something else. They've just fired a round of something. Looks like mortars with tails. A dozen of them."

Gordon sighed. "Oh, please."

Again Gordon and Virgil peered towards the surface through the visual port, waiting to see what was coming. Objects that looked like the piston of a motor vehicle's engine, with a cylindrical head and an accompanying shaft with spines, floated lazily down towards them.

"Hedgehogs?" Gordon was surprised.

"What are they?"

"Spigot mortars. I thought they went out with the Ark." But his expression changed when the mortars stopped their descent and came at his craft as a group. "Oh shit. With a modern homing difference." He backed up only to find they came with him. "Right. Now, I'm angry. _Brace, _everyone. This is going to get rough."

"The missiles! Destroy them with the missiles!"

"They're too close. We'll be hit with ours as well as theirs. We're too close to the bottom not to have the hull ripped open in the surge."

Gordon turned off the radio connection to the others. "Virgil, listen. Here's what I want you to do. As soon as this hits and it's going to hit hard…"

* * *

Jeff saw the water rise high from the surface in the explosion, a spectacular cascade if his sons hadn't been at the receiving end of it. He watched the water erupt, boil then settle, the effect sending water high onto the rocks of the island and across the waterway in a ripple of agitated waves.

"Gordon?" There was no answer. "Brains?"

"Four should take –uh- that, Mr Tracy."

"Wreckage," Alan shouted.

"John?"

"No radio signal but no emergency beacon either, Father. Four's still down there."

"Major wreckage," Alan shouted again.

Jeff flinched when the vidphone came to life.

"You fool, Jefferson," Commander Rutledge said. "You sacrificed your sons on your pride. No boat would survive, particularly one of that size. We heard its alarms. We can see the damage. You lose."

"I refuse to believe it, Rutledge."

"My moment of glory, Mr Tracy. I'll leave you with the remains. So long."

"You won't get away with this." Jeff's fists clenched around the console, threatening to buckle anything weaker than steel. He turned aside to the internal com system. "Gordon? Can you hear me? Forward Base to Thunderbird Four. Come in, please."

There was the sound of Commander Rutledge's laughter on the vidphone but silence from the comm-link.

* * *

Virgil was so disorientated after being flung about by the explosion of the mortars against the front of Thunderbird Four that he didn't comprehend the meaning of the alarm that sounded around him.

Gordon was hunched at the controls, his hands white on the handlebar-like steering mechanism as he sought to limit the sub's movement. The phones were clamped over his ears. He didn't seem to notice or be perturbed by the alarm. Gordon's last words to him had been to fill the airlock with anything he could lay his hands on, anything they didn't need in the next ten minutes, and then open the external hatch. He understood by the evil grin on Gordon's face their ruse was working.

Still, that alarm. He shook his head as he pulled himself to his feet.

"Virgil. _Virgil._ Get in here. _Stat_," Deirdre yelled.

Then he realised the sound had nothing to do with Thunderbird Four.

"_Scott__?_"

He stumbled into the sick bay where Deirdre knelt up on Scott's bed, stretched over him to re-hang his IV bag. The alarm was coming from the panel display on the bed.

"He's having trouble breathing. He's stopped compensating. That jolt!"

Virgil stared at the baseline figures, his brain not wanting to comprehend that Scott was sliding deeper into shock. He could see the paleness, the stillness, in his brother's face.

"Can you hear me, Scott? Can you speak to me?"

"He's incoherent. That IV's not helping. Diluting his RBCs. He's bled out more than we realised. He needs a transfuse."

"Not possible. Polyheme's on Two."

"What's his blood group?"

"_AB_."

"Easy one." Deirdre snatched up the rubber tourniquet they used for venipuncture. "Direct transfer. Me to him."

"Forget it. Too risky. There's no way to cross-match."

"You're losing him, Virgil."

"Gordon!" Virgil shouted. "Get us out of here. I don't care how. _Just do it_!"

* * *

Gordon was doing exactly that.

His being was overcome with a lurid sense of glee. From his phones he could hear the motors getting louder. That meant one thing. The cutter was turning. Their ruse had worked. They'd convinced the crew they'd been sunk. The cutter was coming about to unwittingly expose its tender underbelly to his missiles.

How easy was that?

"Sure thing, Virgil," Gordon yelled in response to Virgil's plea. "Hang on!"

Gordon started the motors and sent it sprinting across the floor of the waterway straight for the cutter. He tossed back the phones and made a war whoop. He turned on the external speaker to full and picked up the microphone.

"Here's a new meaning to the term _SCREW YOU_," he yelled into the water beyond as he flicked a switch to open the forward missile bay and home in on the ship's propellers.

* * *

Despite his abhorrence of violence, Jeff Tracy couldn't help the smile that broadcast across his face as the water erupted beneath the stern of the cutter and the sound of massive explosions reached his ears.

"Sorry, Rutledge," Jeff said into the vidphone when the water settled. "My son outsmarted you." He could hear the clamour of urgency on the bridge of the ship. "Give yourself up to the authorities. Otherwise, I will."

"_Never._"

"Don't make this…" Jeff didn't get to finish the sentence. The sound of a gunshot deafened him. There was a brief round of shocked expletives at the other end before the vidphone connection went dead – for the last time.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-eight - Local Court, Sydney**

"Scott Jefferson Tracy." The magistrate presiding over the committal hearing looked over the top of her glasses and down across the wood grain desk at Scott. He stood to attention, pulling down the edges of his suit coat around the sling on his right arm. "You've heard the charges and the police summary of events. Are these a reasonable account of what happened?"

"Yes, your Honour."

"You are in agreement with the statement of accusation against you?"

"Yes, your Honour."

The magistrate's focus shifted to Scott's counsel at the bar table. "Is there anything you would like to add before I ask for a plea?"

This was it. The moment of truth. The separation of Scott Tracy from International Rescue. He was about to plead guilty. There was no question what the outcome would be. He would go to jail. Amber's testimony that she had deliberately run out in front of the car had helped, still Scott's counsel had warned him to expect an eighteen-month sentence. He was no longer any use to IR or to his family.

The police had gone ahead with all original charges, arresting him immediately he opened his eyes after emergency surgery on his arm. Drink driving, dangerous driving causing grievous bodily harm and attempting to leave the scene of an accident. His plea of duress stopped them from adding more after his early exit from the hospital. But he could form no defence without jeopardising IR's status and he couldn't bear to drag his family and Tracy Corp through the scrutiny of a public court appearance.

He would plead as he had determined. He would plead guilty.

He stood in the dock where he could see the breadth of the Sydney Local Court without turning his head but he judicially kept his gaze towards the magistrate at the front. He knew his father was there, seated in the public seats directly behind his barrister. Grandma was next to him. He knew his brothers would have been there if it was possible but there had been an emergency call. Deirdre was there, giving him the thumbs-up sign anytime he did glance her way.

And there were others taking notes of what was being said.

The barrister stood. "Yes, your Honour. There is something I'd like to add. I request special permission to approach the bench. It is of the utmost importance."

The magistrate whipped off her glasses. "Unusual approach, counsel. Something that can't be said in front of the court?"

"Extremely unusual, your Honour. I beg your indulgence."

The magistrate seemed to consider it. She glanced at Scott before finally answering, "All right. I'm curious. You understand this needs to be good."

The barrister agreed as he came forward to the magistrate's desk and the magistrate leaned forward as Scott's barrister whispered in her ear.

Scott was a little surprised by the development. There had been no discussion prior to the hearing of a special approach. All his representation had to do was read his statement of contrition and his references to sum up his normally exemplary character in the hope it might lighten his sentence.

His barrister turned and motioned his father forward. Scott watched his father stride forward to stand before the judge – his father, who carried this enormous organisation of TC and IR, who had withstood so many trials. Scott's hand tightened on the front of the dock.

The magistrate listened to both the barrister and his father speak in low tones that didn't carry to anyone else. Then her Honour sat back, looking at Scott.

"Mr Tracy, you may be seated. The court will recess for a short break. Ten minutes."

The clerk was on his feet telling the rest of the court to be upstanding as the magistrate left with his barrister and his father.

They were absent for twenty minutes. Scott stared at the door even after they'd gone out. He knew what was happening and he couldn't believe it. His father returned alone, walking back to his seat without looking at Scott.

Scott was shocked, outraged his father would do such a thing and he wasn't sure if he felt anger or joy.

The clerk called the prosecuting team into the magistrate's chambers. The delay brought murmurs that rippled through the public gallery. They all returned fifteen minutes later.

The magistrate drew breath and addressed Scott. "The prosecution has decided to register _nolle prosequi_ against all charges except the drink driving offence. This means they've decided not to pursue them even at this late stage. They're perfectly at liberty to do this. Mr Tracy, you will now only be required to register a plea on one charge. Would you like a moment with your counsel so it can be explained to you?" Scott shook his head. He understood what had happened. "Then, please be upstanding while the prosecution reads the remaining charge again."

Scott stood while the drink driving offence was read, a minor traffic infringement on its own but enough for Scott to feel the bite of it.

"I will now ask for a plea."

"Guilty, your Honour," Scott replied, his voice laden with emotion.

Scott found it difficult to take in what followed. It was difficult to concentrate. All he could do was stare at his father in disbelief as he was jostled by hugs, handshakes and the crush of excited bodies. Even the police officer who attended the scene shook his hand.

In ten minutes he was outside the court, the fine commuted to a community-based order to be served cryptically in any 'International' service group he chose and the magistrate exercised her right not to record a conviction on a first offence. What he did remember was the magistrate smiling at him.

"Thank you, Mr Tracy," she'd said to him as she dismissed the court and left in the rustle of her robe.

He looked at his father as they stood separated by three feet. "You told the magistrate."

"I did."

"Dad, you breached security."

"Yes, son. I did."

"But, Dad?"

"We're in the business of saving lives, not running a clandestine operation. If I can't prevent my own son from future ruin and unfair punishment by telling the truth then something is darn wrong. To let you take this would be unjust, even for IR's sake."

Scott swallowed with difficulty. "The magistrate believed you?"

"The night of the car wreck you were responding to a rescue call. A mudslide in the highlands of Caroaka. John found out one of the officials on duty that evening is her Honour's brother-in-law. John told me what he'd said to him in sufficient detail to convince her Honour it was us her relative had spoken to. That, and reassurances that Brains is at this moment working on a new system of reconnaissance gave her sufficient cause to direct the prosecution to re-consider the charges."

"But…Dad."

"The magistrate ordered you home and counselled me that my –er- Field Commander receive more industry-accepted working conditions in future. No excuse now. Come home. Please." His father smiled, a crooked uncertain pulling back of his cheeks that failed to take the anxiety completely out of his eyes. It was about as close to an apology as Scott had ever witnessed. _Dad was trying. Really trying._ "I'm proud, son. I am."

Scott watched as his father stretched out a hand to his uninjured forearm, to touch him, to plead silently with him, to finally slide those beckoning fingers around his elbow to grip his arm, tentatively as if his father feared Scott might bolt at the intimacy. Scott could feel the pressure of those fingers pulling him forward.

This was the final decision he had to make.

Scott fell on his father's neck and he felt his father's arms close around him for the first time since they'd lost that special person two decades ago. As they embraced, he felt more than the years slip away between them.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I am so sorry."

* * *

Scott let the last of the apple pie slide down his throat before he stretched on the sun lounger. Maybe life wasn't so bad, after all. The lounger was strategically placed on the patio on Tracy Island to make the most of the warmth of the sun, something he'd missed over the previous weeks. His eyes were closed to savour the taste of his Grandma's special recipe resting contentedly in his gut. She'd made it for him and that humbled him.

He was hardly resting, though he was lying down and that was the doctor's prescription. He was the guest of honour at his own homecoming. The general hubbub of voices from the Tracy clan was almost lulling him to the sleep he still desperately needed.

"That's your fourth piece," Deirdre said from somewhere above him. "I didn't know I could enjoy watching someone eat that much dessert."

"All the less for us now big brother's home," Gordon said, without too much heat. "We got used to only sharing three ways."

Scott grinned without opening his eyes.

"Did you notice he used his right hand?" Virgil said, also standing over him but thoughtful enough not to cast a shadow.

"All's not lost if he can shovel pie into his mouth with it," John said.

Scott did open his eyes to survey his arm that was becoming a part of him again. Numerous operations, skin and nerve grafts and weeks of physiotherapy were paying off. The fixator had been removed and only a bandage to cover the necessary skin grafts remained. He flexed his hand into a fist. It felt awkward but at least there was plenty of movement. The question of whether he'd have enough dexterity into it to pilot Thunderbird One again still hung over his head. It was a matter of work then wait and see. And, then, there was always Brain's ingenuity to call on.

Deirdre leaned over him to adjust the pillows that he was supposed to rest his arm on.

"Come on, Dee," John said and groaned. "He'll be impossible if you wait on him. Back to the real world as of now."

Scott went to give his brother the finger then thought better of it when he saw his father come out into their group. He looked with a mix of pride and awe at the patriarch of the family. Any doubts about his father's care for him had dissolved the moment his father had breasted the magistrate's bench on his behalf.

Jeff spoke to Deirdre. "Tin-Tin's ready in Tracy One. She'll have you back on the Australian mainland in no time."

Deirdre sighed. "Well, I can't believe these last few days. I don't think anything will surprise me again, not after what I've seen here. I've done all I can to retract that material on the People's site. I just hope it'll be enough."

"The day we keep what we do in line with popular opinion will be the day we cease to operate," Jeff said. "I'm assured by someone who works in the media that public memory is short. Let's hope so. I refuse to let anything distract us from our mission. Anytime you need anything, you give John a call. Anything, at all."

"Hey, you know," John said awkwardly. "We didn't get off to the best start. You kinda caught us on an off day."

"Never get between two Tracys. Right? I'll never forget. I think the debt goes both ways."

"Dad," Alan said. "Dee can't go until she sees my bird take off. If you're impressed by the other toys, you wait till you see Thunderbird Three in the air."

Jeff referred to Brains.

"All ready when John and Alan –uh- are."

Jeff nodded. "Okay, boys. Off you go. And it better be quick. We're expecting a visitor craft within range in thirty minutes."

"Watch this space!" Alan cried.

"Hey, guys," Virgil said. "How does it feel to have a real life sister-in-arms?"

Alan looked dubiously at John and at Deirdre. "What are you like with bedtime stories? You'd have to be better to look at than Scott."

"Hey!" Scott protested.

"Okay, boys. Off you go," Jeff said and hit the switch that started the couch on its downward run.

"Over here." Virgil encouraged Deirdre to him. "Better view from the rail. It'll be a little while going through the launch sequence but you'll hear it coming. Expect to get a little exhaust-blown. Move it, Gordo. Give the lady some room."

Scott felt under his pillow and pulled out an envelope to offer to Deirdre. "From us."

She took it reluctantly.

"Gordo hasn't been near it," Virgil said, elbowing his younger brother when he pulled a face. "It won't explode or bite or squirt you."

"We can't right all wrongs," Scott said. "I regret we couldn't do anything about Nebivia but Dad has issued a directive to be more sensitive of local issues in future contracts. This is a little contribution to your good work. You said you needed a sponsor after losing your job, now you have one. And not from Tracy Corp, so you don't have to feel bought. From our own accounts – which I think you've seen – we do actually earn."

She opened the envelope and closed it just as quickly. "That's too much."

"In honour of Martin. I believe he thought he was doing the right thing."

"He did wrong by you. _We_ did wrong by you."

"And it cost him. Doesn't mean his objective didn't have merit."

At the mention of her cousin, she teared up. Scott patted beside him on the lounger and she perched on its edge.

"You're not doing the big brother thing with me, are you?" she said.

"I'm older than you by three years and four days, so watch yourself."

"John. I'll wring his scrawny neck, yet."

"You sure you're okay with everything? All healed? This island's not quite deserted but you can stay if you want. If you were, you know, reluctant to go back. What are you like with budgets?"

"After spending time with you guys? I'm thinking Nebivia might be quieter, after all. I'm okay – I think. Now I know someone's watching out for me."

"Even if it is only John," Gordon said from the corner of his mouth.

A deep rumble under the house brought a smile to Scott's face.

"Over here, Dee," Gordon said. "You'll see it best from over here."

Deirdre ran to stand next to Gordon by the rail and Virgil grinned at Scott.

Scott closed his eyes to imagine the thrust he'd be feeling aboard Three right about now as the gigantic short-run space ship took to the skies in an overwhelming roar of power and exhaust.

"Something, huh?" Scott said and Deirdre agreed.

Jeff came out onto the patio. "Okay, Gordon, Tin-Tin's clear. Take Deirdre to the hangar. Then go meet Amber at the wharf. She'll be here in about twenty minutes."

Deirdre said her goodbyes to Jeff and to Virgil, then stopped in front of Scott.

"There's no mistaking you're a Tracy," she said then lent to whisper something in his ear that no-one else heard. Scott's eyes widened and he chuckled as he watched her disappear with Gordon.

He was still laughing when Gordon came back to the patio after Deirdre's plane had left.

"Everything okay with you, Gordo?"

"Sure thing, Scott. Dee's making everything right. She sure kisses better than you ever did." He darted off, snickering.

Scott sat up in his chair. "Ungrateful little… Gordo," he yelled after him. "If I see one more piece of our equipment with left-hand drive written on it, I'll tie you to the outside of One and take you into the stratosphere myself!"

"Great," he shouted as he disappeared down the steps to the pool. "I'll look forward to it. You'll just have to catch me, first."

"You are on, Squirt. Anytime." Scott leaned back heavily in the lounger. "Just not today," he said to Virgil. Scott sat back up when his father signalled a boat was within range. He stood with Virgil at the rail to watch Gordon run down to the wharf. "What's the bet he volunteers in Africa during his time off?"

Virgil sighed. "Who'd have thought I'd have to compete with a guy's scans. Waves off one gal with one hand and greets another with the other. What is it with our second youngest, lately?"

"His unique talent. The sympathy vote." Scott rubbed his face. "This is tough, Virg."

Virgil's big hand landed on his shoulder. "How many times have we been through this. It's not your fault. Amber's doing well, considering. Not quite on her feet, yet, but maybe she will be with help from Brains and Gordo." Virgil grinned across to him. "Great to have you home."

"Thanks. I don't know if I'm all here, though."

"You've had a lot of surgery. A lot of down time."

"I feel different. I don't know if I can explain it. A – little less of me, somehow, and, yet, something more." Scott took out the model of Thunderbird One Rutledge had given him and held it up in his right hand.

"From what I just heard you threaten Gordo, sounds like the Scott I know." Virgil then lowered the volume of his voice. "You are okay, aren't you?"

"You don't need to hide the firearms on base, if that's what you're thinking. I understood something that day. They wanted to do the right thing. Didn't they? Nicholas. Amber. Nicholas wanted to be one of us. _Us_, Virg. Can you imagine it? And he wouldn't let go of that idea, wouldn't let go of Gordon even when things were… Amber was concerned enough about the people in Nebivia to want to do something about it, risk something of her own. That's all I can do, isn't it? To _want_ bad enough. Even if things aren't…" He stared at his injured arm. "I care, Virg. I do. To want to make a difference. And that's what I'm going to do. Maybe Rutledge only wanted what I did and still do."

Virgil feigned an uppercut to Scott's abdomen, which Scott defended with a chuckle.

"Then understand this," Virgil said. "You even think Rutledge and I won't be responsible. You are a Tracy and you always will be. You don't have to do this alone. Not while I'm around. Never forget that."

"I need to trust your judgement more. And Gordon's."

"You can have that decision-making. Now I know how to sweat blood." Virgil indicated Scott's forearm and shook his head. They both stared out over the sea in silence for a moment before Virgil added, "Do you remember what you said about Mom?"

Scott grin broadened. "We need to go to our special place."

"Did you – you know – actually see her? What did she say?"

Scott's eyes shone the colour of cornflowers. "I can't wait to tell you all of it."


End file.
